Providence: A Pemberley Tale
by scarlettbees
Summary: Twelve years into the happiest of marriages comes a sudden influx of trials and tribulations that the Darcys and their growing children must face together, beginning with a desperate neighbor's plea for the couple's help, which then leads to a reunion with an old acquaintance thought to be long deceased. **early draft, subject to change before publication**
1. Chapter 1

Of all the correspondence Mr. Darcy received that morning, only the note from Sir Frederick Blackwell was found to be unique for its suggestion of something severely unpleasant to come.

"_I ask that you be accessible tomorrow at ten o'clock; for I intend to pay you a call on a pressing matter." _

The letter closed with an equally terse expression of gratitude, as though Darcy had no option but to comply as requested, no matter what other business might take precedence. Curious, indeed.

By the time Frederick's arrival was announced had Darcy decided that this meeting must have everything to do with their joint investment in the Cromford cotton mill, and that the concern was no profounder than pounds and shillings. His lifelong neighbor (and occasional friend) had not the best head for business, hence the reason he sought the partnership in the first place. Chances were excellent he would have some figures for Darcy's perusal, if not a tale of some trivial tussle with the foreman that needed arbitration. But upon entrance was all speculation discredited as Frederick, after a perfunctory salutation, requested their privacy be ensured.

Almost instantly was Darcy alerted to Blackwell's countenance. He looked wretched, like he had not slept in days, and with as much alarm as anticipation was his wish granted, the study door firmly locked before the two men sat down in adjacent chairs. It took some time for the visitor to begin, as though he had come through no will of his own, and looked to their impending conversation with dread. A few introductory words were uttered, and then silence.

Darcy leaned forward slightly, quietly encouraging the man to speak out, in such time formulating his own hypothesis; and with no precedent at all for this odd behavior, no prior instance of pithy notes demanding impromptu meetings in private quarters, his mind fixed on the likeliest (and lowest) of personal misfortunes.

"Is it your father?" Darcy gently inquired after too many seconds had passed.

Frederick answered in the negative, which was indeed surprising; for the stricken Lord Blackwell, at an age well above seventy, had sustained longer than any one of his predecessors, and yet clung to mortality fiercely whilst his senility advanced as steadily as his years. But why, then, did Frederick look so lost, almost frightened? Why were his hands clenched together so tightly that his knuckles matched his neckcloth?

"Whatever it is," said Darcy, "you have my discretion."

"I know," said Frederick, and then finally, in a hushed tone, made the confession. "It's Priscilla, she's had a…lover."

The last word, though almost inaudible, could not be misheard. "A _lover_?" Darcy quietly repeated, the disclosure nothing less than astonishing. Without thinking, he blurted, "Are you certain?"

Blackwell swallowed hard, choking out, "Of course I am," before his passions erupted—"and had he not fled the country, I should tear the bastard's heart out!"

"Frederick, wait—just a moment, please." Darcy left his chair to pour his friend a drink, and upon handing him the glass, said, "Now then, ol' boy. Start from the beginning."

"I'd suspected for some time," he began roughly, staring into the brandy then thrown down his gullet. "A couple of months, perhaps. Remember the Harpurs' ball, last autumn?" (Darcy nodded) "I'll never forget the way he looked at her when they danced, nor the smug grin on his face. You know of whom I speak. Bid me not say his name."

Darcy gave but the slightest hint of acknowledgement, keeping just below the surface his vivid recollection of the foppish French count who had ruffled his own feathers after flirting so openly with his Elizabeth. His latent jealousy ere long subsided when she began making sport of the man's twitchy eyebrows and constant smelling of the hors d'oeuvres before tasting them. By the evening's end, the couple had taken to amusing themselves in observance of this brazen young bachelor making love to every pretty face in attendance, including the much-admired and ever-favored Priscilla Blackwell, his intolerable behavior too easily condoned by the Harpurs as a mark of his passionate culture.

"Did she confess to you the affair?" asked Darcy when Frederick went silent once more.

He nodded. "A week ago, after I confronted her with the evidence: a flowery French poem." In a perfect accent, Frederick quoted, "'_Dans sa beauté se trouve ma mort et ma vie._ In her beauty resides my death and my life.'"

"Scève," said Darcy.

"Pardon?"

"Maurice Scève. Renaissance, I believe. One of my sister's favorites."

At this bit of trivial information, Frederick laughed bitterly. "The prig could not be bothered to compose something original!"

"Which should leave you with plenty of doubt as to the sincerity of his regard. And how came you upon this evidence?"

"By my own investigation." Frederick hesitated before adding, "and a bit of help from her lady's maid."

"You enlisted her maid to spy on her?"

"For bloody good reason, by God!" the man barked. "And no woman is at liberty to keep _anything_ from her husband. I was well within my rights."

Darcy fell silent on this legally accurate, though morally questionable point, reckoning no good could come from disputing a man in his state. Furthermore, it would seem Blackwell was the victim of a far worse transgression deserving far more sympathy. For all of Frederick Blackwell's faults, and there were several, compassion was entitled to the recipient of so vile a betrayal, and to that end was the visit owed; thus was Darcy's reply:

"I am truly sorry, ol' friend. I would not have thought Priscilla capable…"

"Nor I," said the poor fellow now suffused with more sadness than anger. "She was the sweetest, loveliest thing in the world. God, I loved her so."

Darcy raised his eyebrows, impelling Frederick to ask, "What, are you surprised, ol' boy?"

"Well, I…that is to say, I've never heard you speak of your wife in such terms."

"Nor have I heard you speak of _yours_ thusly," countered he, "and yet it is common knowledge just the same."

Frederick handed him the empty glass, implying that he should like another. Darcy moved to fulfill the unspoken request, straining to recall the number of times Priscilla was referenced in terms richer than youth, beauty, fertility, family, fortune or connections, the sum total at zero by the time he asked, "Where is your wife now?"

"Melbourne," he answered resentfully, "to her father's unequivocal delight. 'Tis likely her future with Lord Selvidge is being planned as we speak."

In this retort was verified one of several rumors circulated in the weeks before Frederick's nuptials; that the younger, meeker Lord Selvidge had been intended for Priscilla long before this older, prouder peacock sauntered into her life, brimming with unbecoming confidence and the worldliness comprising a man twice her age, easily winning Priscilla's favor, it was said, with far more bravado than her domineering father was used to. That Sir Frederick was but six months widowed before declaring himself ensued a heartier disapproval of the alliance, his indifference to propriety and her father's censure birthing a lasting contempt. Permission to wed the nineteen-year-old was granted only after the promising of an absurdly immense fortune on the event of Frederick's death, which was reasoned could not be too far off given his twenty-year seniority. And once the settlement was finally agreed upon was he happily rewarded with his girl bride thereafter crowed about like she were a prized broodmare, effectively revolting his less vain and more introspective peers, including and especially Mrs. Darcy, who found Sir Frederick barely tolerable on his best day.

"Did she leave you willingly?" asked Darcy, and on Frederick's nod was moved to query further: "Indeed? Without discussion? Without asking forgiveness? With no offer of an explanation?" (no response) "For God's sake, Frederick, made you no attempt at all at reconciliation before you sent the girl packing?"

"I did not send her away, nor was I open—at the time—to her explanations or contrition. Of a truth, I was enraged, so much that it frightened her; and thus she absconded in haste, taking with her but a few possessions. I regret it now, but I could not—_could not_ stop shouting. And I would not listen. You might say I'd gone a bit mad in my response to her admission."

With those words (and his unsettling aspect) came a moment of dread as Darcy asked plainly, "Did you beat her?"

To Darcy's relief was the answer a definitive _"No!"_ followed by Frederick's assertion that he could never harm Priscilla—"no matter what she's done to earn it. Besides, no amount of pain delivered upon her would have purged my own, just as no explanation would have sufficed; and so I lashed out verbally, fitfully. She did manage to say a few words in-between; that the affair was brief, that she did not love him; that she was…that she only felt undervalued and unappreciated, and that he…he…"

Frederick's face contorted as though it physically hurt to go on, and mercifully was he assured that no further explanation was needed, though Darcy began to wonder if more brandy might be counterproductive, rather akin to stoking a bonfire than dousing the flame. Nonetheless he poured another glass. "Do you intend to dissolve the marriage?"

The question was met with a curious look, then another angry outburst: "And let that buggering little frog claim victory? Over _me_? Give her father or that sniveling Selvidge the satisfaction of being rid of me? Over my dead body!"

Darcy shook his head with pity, a motion unseen by Frederick as his eyes were fixed to the desk throughout his impassioned speech. Though he was not so adept at offering comfort as his friend might have hoped, Darcy supposed himself more proficient at offering perspective, and therefore replied:

"I think your wife's youth and inexperience might be taken into account. Not as an excuse for her actions, but in providing the dilemma its due context."

Said Frederick, "I should provide _allowance_ for this one indiscretion, were I confident of its being the last. Never have I been blind to the reality of what I possess. Priscilla is far too beautiful not to meet temptation, too green to resist the lure of seduction, and too trusting to perceive the artfulness of her lover. But I blame not these characteristics for what's happened, Darcy. Rather—"

"Indeed that was not my point, Frederick—"

"_Rather_," he repeated, "I have since come to realize my wife's susceptibility to _persuasion_ has been paramount in her choice to walk this treacherous path."

Frederick was looking at him now, and with an aspect oddly accusatory. Drink in hand, Darcy stepped towards him, quite befuddled as to the reason for this. Surely the man cannot believe _him_ in some way culpable in this affair? The very notion was ludicrous; for in the two-year span of her marriage had he spoke naught but a few words to Priscilla Blackwell, for no purpose but politeness and, of course, always in public.

_If it were true_, thought Darcy, _if persuasion played as substantial a part as Frederick believes, the far more likely accomplice would be a woman, moreover a trusted friend, in which case_…

Like a dead leaf his humor fell, and with a flagging urge to be hospitable did Darcy pause just short of handing his guest the replenished glass. Silently he dared the man to come right out with it, and at length said to him: "What sort of persuasion, pray?"

"Why _your wife's_ persuasion, of course!" Frederick spat, the sheer venom in the foreseen allegation enough to ignite within Darcy a sudden, fierce disdain for this man stupid enough to emit such defamation in his home, his study, about _his_ Elizabeth.

But he would take care to be tranquil, despite the provocation, and with remembrance that he was dealing with a man in great distress; hence he calmly but contemptuously replied, "And what, may I ask, has led you to _that_ conclusion?"

Uttering a foul curse, Frederick shot out of his chair and made for the nearest window, his agitation such that he seemed entirely unable to manage himself, no matter how hard he tried. Staring out, he took a deep breath and answered, with better restraint, "It was not my intention to speak out in a manner so…_abrupt_. Forgive me, ol' boy. I am not quite myself."

"I see that," Darcy returned before he swallowed down the drink in his hand, set down the glass, and said, "So that is the reason you've come then? Not for my sympathy, friendship or guidance, but to accuse my wife of meddling in your marriage, and of persuading your wife to take a lover? Is that an accurate enough assessment of the situation?"

"I suppose now you will call me out, eh?"

His airy reply left Darcy livid."I have four children, you swaggering shit, and am far too old for this nonsense!"

At once Frederick seemed to realize his blunder as he turned from the window, but just a few words into a feeble apology was the pathetic wretch cut off with Darcy's brusque demand to show himself out and never return. Excessive, Darcy would later admit, but as his temper vanished, so emerged his stubbornness in full swing.

Frederick watched in astonishment his host make for the door, and upon unlocking it declare their friendship _and_ their business connection hereby severed, punctuated with, "You will hear from my solicitor directly."

"Oh come now, Darcy, you cannot mean that. You will lose thousands!"

"A sorely underrated luxury is my indifference to that fact."

"Wait, please!" cried Frederick, his eyes full of contrition, as the door was swung open. A more earnest apology and a desperate plea for one more minute of Darcy's time followed—"to explain myself, nothing more. Just one minute, and you will never see me again if that is your wish. On my father's life, I swear it."

Darcy glared at him, jaw set and rebuff prepared; and yet the tone of Frederick's voice stayed his tongue, moreover the despair never before witnessed in this proud, pompous man truly frightened by his predicament, a chap who, even as a boy, never once showed weakness.

"Have pity, Will," Frederick implored, having not addressed him thus since their youth. "One more minute, please."

Gripping the door's edge, Darcy thrust it forward, letting it slam. "Starting now," he said grudgingly, and with that began Frederick's hurried explanation:

"As you well know, my wife and Mrs. Darcy have formed a friendship in the last year or so, which I have found not in the least bit objectionable. In such time Priscilla has expressed to me, on numerous occasions, her ardent admiration for the lady, for her intelligence, her wit, and her admittedly charming but rather…_peculiar_ independence of spirit."

Darcy bristled at the pejorative manner in which these adjectives were expelled, his goodwill hanging by a spider's thread as Frederick went on:

"It has come to my attention of late, that Priscilla has taken to reading certain materials on your lady's recommendation, works I strongly object to and was inclined to forbid—for her own good, mind you. Such works are enticing to an especially young woman, and at one-and-twenty is Priscilla still so impressionable, so ripe for the perversions of these contemporary poets and authors. I'll not mince words, ol' boy, and how it pains me to say, that Mrs. Darcy has, whether consciously or not, awakened an urge within my wife to rebel."

"I see," was Darcy's cold reply. "Thirty seconds."

"What, you think me out of order?" Frederick snapped. "That I am not aware of the contempt in which your wife holds me, that her expressions have escaped my notice, that I have not read the inference in her remarks these twelve years, that I have been oblivious to her sarcasm rife with disparagement and derision? I have seen how she pities my Priscilla for marrying me, for enduring me, meanwhile taking delight in my wife's company, moreover her compliments to the lady's most _refreshing_ singularity. It was declared that Mrs. Darcy's friendship has been invaluable, that she is dear, wise and sensible. And though it was never declared openly that the affair occurred as a direct result of the her influence, it is more than fair to reason that these illicit ideas might have never entered my wife's head, had such a friendship never materialized. But before you cast me out, let me assure you I did _not_ come here for the purpose of condemning either of you. You have always had my respect, Darcy—always! Your family, as well. And that respect has never wavered, not in the least."

Frederick began pacing the floor, growing evermore excitable as he continued:

"I had prepared a prettier speech than this; but now that I have destroyed all pretense to civility, there is little choice but to proceed with absolute candor, to bare myself completely. Of a truth, I care not a whit about how much or how little _anyone_ is to blame for this. Do believe me when I say the extent of your wife's involvement is of no importance to me, her opinion of me irrelevant, her intent, or lack thereof, entirely immaterial. I only want…"

Frederick whipped around again, giving Darcy his back and slamming a palm hard against the wall. "I want my wife back!" he shouted, pounding the wall in repetition, rattling the decanter and shocking his host with the force of his desperate plea.

Darcy recognized such desperation. In his own reflection he had seen it, ages ago, in the hours following a certain lady's rejection of a highly insulting marriage proposal. The recollection served well in cracking his stone wall of stubborn resolve, as he could wish upon no man a burden so oppressive, no matter his offense. Whether merited or not, Sir Frederick's grief was felt with an acuteness that pierced his heart, awakened his empathy, and flipped his anger on its head.

"Sit down, Frederick," he bade softly, wondering if this man formerly bounded by the armor of his lineage had even the capacity to fully understand these feelings; for it seemed he should much rather expel them than comprehend them. And on the command's submission Darcy pondered the best way to proceed. "You want her back, you say. Very well. And what is it you want from _me_? Surely you cannot think it within my power to save your marriage."

"It is not _your_ power I am in need of, Darcy. Have you not deduced that by now?"

Frederick looked at him, and indeed Darcy knew, as well as he knew the impossibility of such a notion. He opened his mouth to argue as much, only to be refuted preemptively, his tacit objections countered with more examples of Mrs. Darcy's influence over the pliable Priscilla Blackwell, from her increasingly decided opinions on various subjects to her fresh interest in taking long walks in solitude. By the end, Darcy imagined himself possessing the patience of a saint as he calmly retorted:

"Had my wife even half the power you presume, it is your own contention, Frederick, that she thinks so ill of you as to remove her friend from _your_ power. And so I ask you: What reason has she to assist you by any means within her authority?" Before he'd finished the question Darcy knew its answer, and then asked, "Is this where _I_ am to enter the scene?"

"It is." As he said the words, Frederick seemed finally to realize the extent to which he was willing to humble himself, perhaps for the first time in his life. "Will you speak to her?"

"And what would you have me say on your behalf, sir?"

"That I am willing to do anything; that I am truly at her mercy. And Priscilla's."

At length Darcy contemplated, still quite reluctant, before replying, "Do you love her that much? Or is this all to do with your pride, Frederick? Are we to be embroiled in a situation made of nothing more delicate than your dignity, conceit and, I daresay, your arrogance, which forbids a Blackwell's _grand_ _prix_ to humiliate him in such a manner?"

Darcy half expected the man at that moment to take off in outrage, such was his prickly nature, only to have his expectations subverted once more as Frederick answered wearily:

"Is it not clear enough how drained I am of such attributes? Indeed the vacancy I feel is overwhelming. Excruciating. Only drink has numbed the pain. But I am tired of drinking, Darcy. Tired of numbing myself lest I fall ill beyond repair. The master of Pemberley knows better than I do the consequences of so dreadful an outcome. It cannot be afforded. My duties are incalculable. My father is dying; I am without an heir, and so downhearted that I fear Kingston shall crumble under the weight of my despair. Help me, Darcy. I am begging you."


	2. Chapter 2

Elizabeth Darcy was floored. It was inconceivable, the very thought of a Blackwell's undoing—and over a woman!—a creature whose value generally hinged upon the size of her dowry, the fairness of her complexion, and the function of her womb. That the supercilious Sir Frederick, whom Elizabeth had borne for twelve years as a model of everything she loathed about the Quality, was now a shell of his former self by virtue of his wife's absconsion, left her truly torn over what, if anything, was to be done.

At her dressing table she sat, pulling hairpins as part of her nightly ritual, eyes fixed on her husband through the looking glass, most attentive to his solemn recounting of today's meeting with his broken comrade. By the story's end she felt a measure of sympathy relative (though hardly equal) to William's, despite her conviction that the gentleman had brought every bit of his plight upon himself.

"Your position, it would seem, is uncompromising," replied William to her declaration of such, "whereas I am less convinced that their marriage is beyond recovery."

"It is hard to have _your_ faith, Mr. Darcy, when a man is so disinclined as Frederick to listen when a woman speaks. Your friend's attention, I daresay, was not to be gained by gentler means. And therefore in the bluntest manner possible was he made keenly aware of his wife's unhappiness."

"Is that so?"

His searching look and suspicious tone put Elizabeth immediately on the defensive. "I did _not_ encourage Priscilla Blackwell to take a lover!"

"I know you would never do so _deliberately_," said William, "but I now wonder if the connotation of your counsel might have been misconstrued to damning effect."

Elizabeth ceded that possibility, and on further reflection suffered a twinge of guilt thus projected in her response: "I had no ill intentions, nor an inkling of Priscilla's actions. You cannot believe—"

"Of course not, darling," he was quick to rejoin. "As to Frederick's belief, I repeat that he is fixed not on pointing the finger, but on winning back his wife."

"Then he might try earning her," she bit out, then pausing to check her temper ere she continued, "I am not without compassion, but nor can it be overlooked, that Sir Frederick sees nothing beyond the tip of his own nose, and—sadly, though not undeservedly—has his effrontery cost him what he claims to value most."

William nodded, presumably in accord, as he took his side of the bed the two of them had shared for the last twelve years. "And Priscilla Blackwell, what does she value most?"

The question came unexpectedly, and so Elizabeth thought hard on it, eventually turning from the mirror to respond directly, "It is most evident she has yet to make that discovery; but I assure you whatever it is cannot be bought—not with flowers, flattery or frilly French poetry. The books have provided some inspiration, I think, but nowhere near the lengths to which Frederick so narrowly presumes. Despite the improvement of her mind, Priscilla has a great deal more to learn—she _and_ her husband."

William sighed. "It would seem two things are apparent, my dear: that your friend is lost, and that mine is lost without _her_."

Leaving her dressing table, Elizabeth made to lay beside him, nestling up to his taller, broader frame. "What a singular predicament we now find ourselves in," said she, to which her husband shook with quiet laughter.

"Indeed, my dear. Were my empathy not so touched, I should be most inclined to stay out of such business entirely. 'Tend your own garden,' as my father used to say, and there are few marital dilemmas more delicate (or more private) than this one. But before we avow to wash our hands of the matter, I must have you understand what it took for Frederick to come to me today, what drives the proudest of men to such humility. Despite all subterfuge, his cocksure veneer, his insufferable posturing, Frederick Blackwell has revealed himself as a man helplessly, rather desperately in love. Of that I am quite certain."

Elizabeth smiled in acknowledgment of her husband's expertise in such matters, and replied: "That he is capable of knowing _how_ to love a woman is less certain."

"_I_ managed to learn, and he seems willing to. Might Priscilla be willing to give him another chance? Might she learn from her own mistake, and henceforward satisfy her yearning by less fickle means?"

"Are you attempting to persuade _me_ to persuade _her_, Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy rolled to his side to face her. To the tip of her nose he stole a kiss, and then rested on one elbow. "This is what I propose," said he, brow knit with contemplation. "A garden party, four weeks hence. We invite the Blackwells, which gives Frederick adequate pretext to write Priscilla and—in a most gentlemanly manner—apply for her immediate return to Kingston. She will accept obligingly, as the preservation of appearances, after all, is a mark of good breeding."

"I imagine it otherworldly," said Elizabeth, "that your friend should write her on the pretext of his self-confessed desire for her company, her delightful essence, her…"

She trailed off as Darcy gave this notion the laugh it deserved. Elizabeth conceded her momentary slip into madness, and then bade he continue lest she begin raving again.

"In the time preceding the event shall Frederick make the heartiest of endeavors," said William. "I have stressed to him that his behavior must be stellar, his manners impeccable—"

"I daresay this seems too far a reach for the likes of Frederick Blackwell," quipped Elizabeth.

"Dismiss him not too hastily, Mrs. Darcy. If hope remains, a man will act a fool for the woman he loves." He then asked earnestly, "But is there hope, my dear? That is to say, does Priscilla…? Could she…?"

"Love him?" (he nodded; she shrugged) "I cannot tell you. She married for love, I think, but knows not its meaning. For so long she had been resigned to her fate with Lord Selvidge; but then Sir Frederick blew into her life as a violent wind, dazzling her, flattering her, overwhelming her with a powerful determination when she was but a girl, when she knew not her own mind, her own proclivities. I should call her emotional state that of utter confusion and distress. When she at last reaches a state of self-knowledge, of sovereignty, only then will she know precisely what he means to her. Until then, he must have patience."

"Patience. Not one of Frederick's strong suits," William quipped, "so accustomed he is to taking what he wants as he wants it. In all your conversations, did not Priscilla ever mention this admirer of hers, this count?"

"Not at all, which complicates the matter exceedingly, but…" Elizabeth paused to study her husband keenly, and with a rising concern said, "Surely, Mr. Darcy, you are not suggesting I do what Frederick bids of me, that I act as an instrument to his design?"

His expression scorned the very notion of such a thing, and he replied hotly, "You are no lady's maid, Mrs. Darcy! And to Frederick I have made it plain, that we'll abide no scheming or duplicity of any kind, and that your role shall be infinitesimal. As it must, the fate of our estranged couple hinges entirely upon their own redemption, and their own choices, whether of words or actions or both. I am not, however, adverse to setting the stage."

"Nor I," she agreed. "I wish only for Priscilla to know happiness in whatever form it takes…" (she smiled) …"even if that form is her husband's. By your account, and without knowing the particulars of the affair, my impression is that she was seduced into it, and is sorry for it. She is not clever, but nor is she vicious. Very few have I known, sister Jane and our little Malcolm among them, of gentler nature or sweeter temper. Sir Frederick values _that_ much at least, though 'tis a rather rickety foundation on which to build a lasting partnership. And May promises excellent weather for a garden party."

And so it was settled between them, that the party would take place on the twentieth of May, when the gardens were to be in full bloom, most notably their hedge maze, which was widely recognized as the loveliest in Derbyshire. Constructed many years ago as Mrs. Darcy's birthday gift to her beloved husband, travelers came far and wide in the summer months to visit and stroll through the impeccably tended labyrinth of a singular puzzled design yet to be replicated ('twould be in bad form to do so, after all). The couple took equal pride in its splendor, and in its maintenance was spared neither love nor expense. Their children, especially, favored the site as a playground in which to while away the afternoon hours as a reward for the day's lesson with Miss Baxter, the Darcys' dedicated (and very capable) governess to whom this work shall now devote a measure of compulsory exposition.

Pemberley was the second private estate to employ Miss Baxter's services, the first obliged to set her free on completion of her pupils' education, which, if one may be plain, yielded excellent results (the two daughters were lately married, each to men of rank, the son now engaged to the heiress of an American financier). And so, equipped with glowing references and hearty recommendation, was Miss Baxter removed to Derbyshire's wealthiest property, where a promising litter of three awaited her, and a troublesome ward was later inserted.

Her new pupils proved more of a challenge than originally anticipated, when in her first week the middle child, Miss Janie, spoke candidly of her disinterest in arithmetic, and for another week refused to take up a needle and thread on her assertion that it was a silly (and exceedingly dull!) occupation. Never had Miss Baxter seen so young a girl with so brash a tongue, so headstrong in her reluctance to behave as a lady of good breeding ought. But during a conference with her mother did Miss Baxter gain better understanding of this decidedly different situation, of a woman who did not, in fact, value societal convention and matrimonial development so much as intellect, ideas, critical thinking and curiosity, the refinement of which taking utmost precedence. There was no use arguing the fallacy of Mrs. Darcy's approach to girl-rearing, nor the unlikelihood of a gainful marriage, as the missus, too, retained a stubborn nature quite set in stone. Thenceforward, Miss Janie took to her lessons remarkably well, and by age six could read and write at an extraordinarily advanced level. History and Literature were among her favorite subjects, and Geography, too, as the years went on. In due course was arithmetic given better concentration as the girl was quite fond of puzzle games, and so long as the problems were framed as such, Miss Janie, now almost ten years of age, was agreeably up to the challenge of solving them.

The eldest child, Master Ben, was of a less quarrelsome but prouder nature, a rather precocious youth who fancied himself a grown man, and who happy lived by a deeply ingrained set of congenital principles. Worn on his sleeve were his defining characteristics: thoughtful, bright, moreover cognizant of his station in life as the heir apparent, a precedence he took very seriously. Often were his hands, when not in use, clasped behind his back, a practice also employed habitually by the Darcy patriarch, whom the boy clearly sought to emulate in every respect. Not unlike the austere (and rather impressive) Mr. Darcy, Master Ben exuded an air of superiority quite common among males of eminent distinction, whilst at the same time followed Miss Baxter's lessons with marked self-discipline, questioning her instruction only when it seemed not quite relevant to his principal purpose, that being his eventual succession, which would ultimately, as he'd once phrased it, entail the sort of tutelage well outside her area of expertise. And on that head was the eleven-year-old now preparing himself to attend Eton next autumn, a few years late in terms of convention, but of education perfectly suitable.

Miss Baxter's youngest and favorite Darcy pupil was, and likely ever would be, the meek and modest Mr. Malcolm, a boy just turned eight years old, and yet possessing a superiority of character few men three times his age possessed, and a nobility of spirit relative to the angels. There was not a soul of whom he did not think well, and to this pure youth was all in the world respectable. To hear ill of anyone brought him pain, and to all negative inferences was he disinclined to accept without contention. Though Miss Baxter worried that the inevitable sorrows of life were sure to harden the dear lad by and by, it was Mrs. Darcy's claim, citing fondly her beloved sister he so closely favored both in looks and temperament, that his kindhearted disposition, no matter the world's cynicism, would forever endure in the face of it. Given his natural virtue, one might think the boy rather simple, and in essentials perhaps he was. In the schoolroom, however, did he display acute intuition and aptitudes well beyond his years; not that he would ever boast of these abilities, among which was a superb singing voice to accompany his brother's violin, or his sister's harp.

But, personal favorites aside, each Darcy sibling showed disparate talents and attributes that should serve their family reasonably well. How Miss Baxter wished she could say the same of her newest and most challenging pupil to date, the mischievous Mr. Wickham (or little George, as he was sometimes referred), who'd revealed to her early a disinclination to following rules and taking orders, as well as a predilection to recreation over responsibility. As a teacher who had established her bona fides at a charity school, in general had Miss Baxter the utmost compassion for displaced orphans, particularly one who had lost his mother so suddenly to illness, the poor thing finding himself all alone at the tender age of ten. The boy's father, she was informed, was among the noble casualties of Bonaparte's war, a heroic officer taken down most tragically in his son's infancy. To add injury upon injury, at the age of four did George's only grandfather succumb to apoplexy, leaving no paternal influence within immediate proximity; and so, for the bulk of his fledgling years were his material companions comprised of two doting, rather overbearing women, his mother and (also deceased) grandmother respectively, the pair of whom sheltering and spoiling the boy to their own delight and his detriment. How unfortunate, thought Miss Baxter, that his father did not live to instill within his son the sort of character, discipline and principles so deeply-rooted in the Darcy brothers; for surely the honorable lieutenant would have raised the boy right and proper. In her experience had Miss Baxter found that, while mothers were inured to supplying their sons the unconditional love and affection all children need and deserve, fathers were absolutely paramount to a boy's overall wellbeing, and most crucial to the shaping of his future.

Not that Mr. Wickham was _bad_, per se. In many ways was the eleven-year-old exceedingly charming, amiable, and pleasantly natured. A healthy balance he brought to his more earnest relation of the same age, Master Ben, who, despite his shortcomings, would easily claim George his favorite among a baker's dozen of first cousins. A practical realist, Miss Baxter ceded that there shall always be children more resistant than others to relinquish the carefreeness of youth, and of such had George proved her most vexing example. Though his intelligence was average, his cleverness was advanced as he too often found one way or another to evade or curtail the day's lessons in favor of more diverting activities. His favorite subject (as it might as well be called) was horses, and at almost any given moment could Mr. Wickham be found somewhere in the livery yard, fraternizing with the stable hands or grooming the stock, which he knew was forbidden during class hours. It was a constant aggravation, a perpetual strain on her time and energy. Though she was far from giving up, that the restless young man, after one year and a half under her authority, took almost nothing seriously remained his most concerning defect, especially when he, like Master Ben, was to become master of his own (albeit much smaller) estate in Hertfordshire, an entailment of which Mr. Wickham thought little and seemed to care even less as the property, according to the missus, fell currently under a steward's management till the completion of his education. On occasion was Miss Baxter privy to the Darcys' outspoken disappointment in George's behavior and progress, but never (thankfully) was she blamed for it. The couple enforced her rules to the best of their ability, Mr. Darcy having once or twice come just short of taking the lad over his knee before thinking better of it, sympathetic as he was to the orphaned child's circumstances. Mrs. Darcy, too, had nearly matched her husband's frustration, but with no love lost in the slightest as she worked with the governess daily to try and set Mr. Wickham on the straight and narrow path.

Despite these challenges, overall was Miss Baxter content in her taxing situation; for the Darcys were fair, kind, good people, highly attuned to one another and believed to be very much in love. Consequently, their children lived under a happy roof, devoid of spitefulness, neglect or cruelty, and in the couple's shared countenance was intuited a keen understanding of their wayward nephew, an unquestionable affection, an abundance of patience, but, most essentially, an absolute determination, especially on Mr. Darcy's end, in guiding the boy towards great success. Indeed, Mr. Wickham _was_ as much a son to the mister and missus as their natural born, and their loving, dogged efforts Miss Baxter reckoned should improve the young man in good time, hopefully sooner than later.


	3. Chapter 3

George Wickham crept out of doors very early that morning to meet with Sam Cullen, who had promised to have Hera saddled and ready at six o'clock sharp—"should ye' be bold enough to take advantage," the grizzled old groom had said. For unlike his uncle Darcy, this common servant wholly sympathized with George's fervid desire to take on the hot-bloods ruled forbidden till his abilities matched his eagerness. To smaller, gentler breeds was he gallingly restricted whilst his cousin Ben as the more experienced rider was granted access to nearly all of Pemberley's stock, the Majestics among them. Not that George could not appreciate his uncle's well-meaning limitations imposed for his own protection, or that he woke up every morning with the urge to break rules. He simply found some rules too redundant, insufferable or unfair to abide, especially when he fell behind Ben Darcy through no fault of his own.

As a consequence to his mother's misplaced fears of him taking a fatal fall did "little George" arrive embarrassingly late to equestrianism, having almost no contact with horses in the first decade of his life. Not until his move to Pemberley subsequent to poor Mamma's death did George receive his first lesson, thus igniting a passion for riding almost instantly, indeed a passion for just about everything hitherto above his knowledge and out of reach. It was not long before George realized that life in Hertfordshire had been exceedingly dull, monotonous, entirely free of adventure, and horribly lacking in fun. Life with the Darcys, however, had introduced him to a world of pleasures such exorbitant wealth afforded. Only a year ago had George gone on his first holiday, traveling in the best carriages pulled by the best horses to the best room in the grandest hotel on the shores of Brighton, where he first saw the ocean and marveled at its splendor. He would learn to sail, he had promised himself, and would someday be a sea captain; but before he could master a ship must he master the land by way of superior horsemanship, and so George spent as much time as possible on the back of a mount, making up for time lost, something he fancied should earn him far more praise than censure. But Mr. Darcy, a once kind but increasingly stringent figure of authority, was so insistent upon his concentration on schoolwork, on tedious subjects which confined him for hours within a windowless room under the watchful eye of stodgy ol' Miss Baxter, that he really had no choice but to bend the rules now and then. His short-sighted uncle must some day or another comprehend, as Sam Cullen did, George's yearning to reach the level of excellence equal to his namesake, the man who had learnt to ride on that very same property, in that same livery yard, and right alongside Mr. Darcy.

"Your father was the finest horseman that ever was seen," George's mother had told him on too many occasions to count, "and the handsomest soldier in Colonel Forster's regiment. So amiable he was, of gentlemanly manners, a friend to peers and peasants alike, and a favorite among the ladies, too, including your aunt Lizzy at one time. But then she married for money instead, not long after I had won my dear Wickham's heart."

It was among his favorite bedtime stories, along with her tale of a toad named Collins, once in line to take ownership of their beloved home before Providence intervened to strike a deadly fever upon this slimy creature cloaked in clergyman's attire, thus liberating his long-suffering wife to marry a respectable human physician, and bequeathing Longbourn to its rightful master, Mr. George Thomas Wickham. Not only was this story avowed as well over two-thirds accurate, but its every retelling never failed to send them both into a fit of giggles by the end.

And with these truth-inspired tales came his mother's fond remembrance of her dear Mr. Wickham, of their whirlwind romance, of his brief career with the militia before falling madly in love with her in Brighton, and of his joining the Regulars on a commission purchased as a wedding present from his best man, godbrother, and lifelong friend, Mr. Darcy. She talked of her husband's passionate devotion to the army, of his burning desire to go abroad and fight for King and Country, and his bravery in the Peninsula before meeting a tragic end that befell so many other great heroes of the war.

"And it was all for you, little George," she had stressed to him, "for he could not abide his son growing up in a world run by the Corsican Fiend, Bonaparte; and so he nobly sacrificed himself for the greater good. Oh how dearly he wished to return home to us!—to know _you_, especially, to be the father you deserve. But the good die young, unfortunately, and as the best of men was your Papa destined not to grow old as great men ought. My one hope, sweetling, is that you turn out just like him; that you grow to favor him in character as you do in appearance; for there was none so splendid as he."

And with this in mind did little George slip out through the servant's door and, lantern in hand, set off to the stables, where the magnificent mare was indeed waiting for him as promised, Sam Cullen smiling as he walked her out of the stall fully prepared.

"Ye' cannot tell a soul, George," the man whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "And if ye' ain't back in twenty minutes, it's on _my_ head! Don't disappoint me."

"I won't, Sam," George whispered back. "You're a true friend. Were it not for you, I'd be riding Shetlands till I'm twenty!"

"That's right, boy," Cullen replied, "and so you 'member that, and don't be out too long, else I'm sacked and there ain't no one else to help ye', do ye' hear? Mates forever, right?"

"Right, Sam," said George as he mounted Hera. "Twenty minutes, I promise. To the west

wood and back, no farther."

He coaxed the mare into motion and out of the stables, setting off at a steady gait out into the splendor of the rising sun over a scenic landscape. He swept past the enclosure confining a tamed fallow, Aries, rescued two springs ago as an orphaned fawn deep within the very wood to where George was now heading, his ears perked in awareness of pounding hooves against the grass on which he grazed.

Onward George rode, quite proud of his own wisdom in selecting this aging, manageable Thoroughbred all but ready to be put to pasture. Gradually he increased the gait, from a trot to a cantor, as of yet lacking the confidence to go full gallop—but soon, very soon. As dawn rose to morning he reached the forest, from thence arriving at the bridle path which led directly to the tree stump serving as a marker for him to turn around and head back.

George was disappointed as he felt the ride all too brief; but the sky's hue signaled he was making good time. And so, eyes fixed to the stump, he decided to try something never before attempted, that Mr. Darcy had yet to sanction, that even Ben had not permission to endeavor.

The hurdles used in practice were simple feats, and Hera, aptly bred for jumping, had most certainly made higher leaps than the one George was determined to take here and now. The stump could not have been more than a meter in height, still well above what he was used to. Most acutely had his uncle been observed taking a fence with perfect ease and grace, the position of horse and rider in relation to the hurdle explained many times over.

George knew that he was ready, and therefore situated himself accordingly, coordinating the mare as per instruction.

_Stay centered_, _less tension_, was he told time and again. Instinctively, inadequately, George too often took to leaning forward and gripping firmly, his thighs squeezing the horse to excitability, a novice mistake he sought to correct as he trotted Hera closer and closer to the obstacle. And once he cleared it, he would show his uncle in his next lesson how much he'd improved, and how able he was to ride – and jump! – as large and noble a mount as Ben Darcy. And from thence would he progress from ponies and hurdles fit for Janie and little Malcolm, all at once surpassing Ben in proficiency, never mind experience. Or advantage.

The obstacle now upon him, George was abruptly seized with inexplicable panic, which the horse immediately sensed as she began to resist, snorting and bucking in response, compelling her rider to grip tightly and hold fast. Now perceiving him as a threat, Hera reared back, front heels high in the air, braying in spirited disapproval until the unwelcome weight was shaken to the ground.

George landed hard upon his back, the sheer force of it knocking every bit of air out of his lungs. He struggled fiercely to catch a breath, eyes wide with terror as he felt the deadly threat of suffocation, that he was essentially a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing, writhing in desperation. Up he sat, thankful to at last feel the smallest ingestion of oxygen. For several minutes he worked to recover, one shallow breath at a time, whilst Hera maintained a cautionary distance and mistrustful stare. George glared at the beast, tears welling, and loudly he berated her as a worthless nag, pitching handfuls of dirt in her direction before rising to his feet, gritting his teeth as an intense pain assaulted his upper back.

Consequently was George alerted to the time as he rushed to retrieve his mount, the animal less inclined than before to obey. With some effort he grabbed hold of the reigns and hoisted himself onto her back. In haste he cued her homeward, soiled and sore from the embarrassment of an outing, furious tears streaking his dirt-smeared face.

Not unexpectedly was he found out as, within a field of wildflowers and midway to the stables, he was met by an angry rider fast approaching. "Mr. Wickham!" barked Hodges, the livery manager, pointing a finger as he firmly commanded, "Halt your mount, boy! HALT!"

* * *

"What is it?" asked Janie Darcy, advancing on her two whispering brothers. "Tell me, Ben. No secrets!"

"Lower your voice," chided Ben, forefinger pressed to his lips. "George is in trouble again. His bed was empty when I awoke this morning. Crept out at dawn, apparently."

"Oh, no," Janie worried, "what's he done now?"

"You must have heard wrong," whispered Malcolm to his brother. "George is not a horse thief."

"What!" cried Janie. "George stole a horse! Says who!"

"Shhhhh!" Ben whispered, "I overheard Mrs. Maguire tell Miss Baxter that George was caught taking Hera out for a jaunt."

"That's not stealing," Malcolm argued, "that's borrowing."

"Without permission is stealing," Ben countered.

The door opened, and Miss Baxter entered the nursery. "Mr. Wickham shan't be joining us today, children. No questions, please. We are off-schedule as it is and have much to do. Now off to the schoolroom, please. I am needed elsewhere presently, and so I leave you in charge, Master Ben. Work on penmanship in the interim. Shakespeare: _A Lover's Complaint_. On my return shall we discuss the work."

"Yes, ma'am," the three siblings chimed, and followed Miss Baxter's order out of the nursery. As they walked the hall, their whispering recommenced:

"Where is George now?" Janie inquired.

"With Mother and Father," said Ben. "In the study, I think."

"Poor George," Malcolm lamented. "What if he's never allowed to ride again?"

"Then he would learn a valuable lesson, wouldn't he," Ben coolly replied.

Affronted by his brother's passivity, Malcolm labored to defend George as best he could, but to no avail as Ben listed off the many rules their cousin had either bent or broken just that month. Cornered with these evidences could Malcolm only hang his head in sympathy, reiterating that George had only borrowed Hera with no ill intention, to which Janie, in consolation, wrapped an arm around her little brother's shoulder and said, "Worry not, lamb chop. George might have earned himself a good tongue lashing, but Papa would never ban him from riding full stop. It would be too cruel. Besides, I'm sure he's learned his lesson and is sorry. You know George; he is occasionally thoughtless, sometimes naughty, but means no real harm."

"No indeed," Malcolm concurred, glaring up at his brother.

"Exceedingly thoughtless and oftentimes naughty," Ben modified. "But eventually must he ascend to more gentlemanly behavior if he is to take proper mastership of Longbourn."

"You are repeating just what Papa says," Janie remarked.

"It is the truth, no matter who said it first. A worthy heir acknowledges the supremacy of legacy over personal inclinations."

Janie rolled her eyes. "There is room for both, I daresay."

"George told me he should like to join the Navy," said Malcolm, "that he should rather be a sailor than confined to an old farm like cattle."

Replied Ben, "Yesterday a soldier, today a sailor, tomorrow a pirate. Anything but a gentleman. Decidedly ill-bred defiance."

"Some friend you are," Malcolm argued.

"_I_ am his best friend in the whole world," Ben snapped back. "And as such am I bound to honesty for his own good. It is insupportable to defend everyone as _you_ do. To pardon ill behavior is to allow it. To allow it is to endorse it. To endorse it—"

"Oh have done already," sighed Janie, exasperated with her brother's driveling. She again addressed Malcolm: "Mamma will act as George's defender, and Papa will listen. You know he refuses her nothing. And with any luck, his punishment will not be too severe. How I should hate for him to miss the party next week."

"Whatever punishment is delivered," said Ben, "be assured it will be fair and reasonable. Papa would have it no other way."

And on that declaration was the subject dropped as the children filed into the schoolroom to follow their morning lesson.

* * *

"Are you hurt?" Darcy inquired, noting his nephew's constant flexing of his shoulders and back.

"A little sore," said the boy.

"Perhaps we should send for someone," observed Elizabeth with concern.

"It is nothing, Aunt, really," George replied. "I am well…" (he scowled) "…and would have cleared the stump easily had Hera not failed me."

"I beg your pardon," returned Darcy, his shortness of temper most evident. "Failed _you_? Is that what you said?"

Under such scrutiny could the boy not respond with any measure of confidence, and so he fell silent as Darcy stepped towards him, arms crossed and glare menacing. "Explain to me how _you_ were betrayed, little George. Go on."

But George could not meet his eye, let alone answer as he merely shrugged in response. "Sorry, Uncle," he finally uttered.

"Sorry for what, exactly? For your flagrant disobedience, or for getting caught? Never mind. I know it is the latter, just as I know you bemoan missing that blasted jump; for had you succeeded, you might well have gotten away with it. But you did not succeed, George, because you have not the _skills_ assimilated through patience, discipline, experience and, above all, good sense, which you are sorely lacking indeed to attempt such a feat on your own!"

"I had just thought—"

"You thought wrong! In these material qualities you are wholly insufficient. All you have is the desire, which is not enough! It is never enough! But you ignore my counsel, defy my rules, put yourself in danger without a care for either your own neck or Hera's, for your aunt and I, nor for your mother's dying wish that you are kept safe. Chin up, George. Look at me. A gentleman does not shrink from accountability, do you understand? You will own your mistakes, and you will learn from them, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now tell me what you did wrong. I want to hear you say it."

At length the boy answered, sheepishly, "I seized up at the last moment and lost Hera's confidence."

Darcy blinked and stared, frustrated that his heartfelt speech had evidently fallen on deaf ears. He cut a glance at Elizabeth, who bit her lip to stifle a laugh; for even in serious moments could she not but take delight in the absurd.

"Ah, is that all?" Darcy returned, finally. "How interesting. Why just a moment ago, you attested to your mount's insufficiency. Do you now claim it was your own?"

Another shrug. "I think, er…both, perhaps. That is fair, is it not?"

Further annoyed, Darcy turned away, finding a nearby window. But the view served naught to soothe him as he felt an awful taste in his mouth. "This will not do, George. You cannot continue on in this manner. And in the end shall your conduct leave you very sore indeed; for I assure you that your will is _nothing_ to mine."

"Or mine," Elizabeth sternly added. "Now tell us who helped you, George."

"Helped me?"

"Who prepared her for you?" Darcy clarified. "Someone had to."

The boy colored, shook his head, and answered innocently, "No one, Uncle."

"You are lying!" Darcy looked over his shoulder to further exclaim, "I shall always know when you are lying, do you hear? _Always!_"

"Dearest," said Elizabeth softly, calming his temper. She then asked her nephew in a gentler tone, "Are you protecting him, George? Tell us the truth."

"He is not a man worth protecting, George," Darcy added, "and no friend of yours, I assure you."

George's eyes darted from his aunt to his uncle. "I—I used a stool for the saddle and bridle. All by myself. _I_ am to blame. No one else."

Heaving a sigh, Darcy turned from the window, his expression a bit softer. "Do you take full responsibility?"

"Yes, sir."

"And will accept your punishment without contention?"

"Without…contention?"

"You would know the word if you took the slightest interest in your studies. It means without argument."

The boy hung his head. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Oh, George," said Elizabeth, her compassion stirred. "Your uncle and I know how much you love riding. But you could have been severely injured. You could have been killed! Can you not imagine our devastation had you—"

"You are forbidden to ride till further notice," Darcy bit out, his tone harsh and resolute, "and must earn your way back onto the saddle through humility and hard work. A fortnight under Hodges' authority should do it. Cleaning stalls, shoveling manure—"

"Manure!" cried Elizabeth. "But, dearest—"

"The lowliest work conceivable!" Darcy exclaimed. "All but feeding and grooming; for I'll have you nowhere near those horses for all the respect you have for them _and_ for me. And as you are waist-deep in dung, George Wickham, think on my disappointment. Think on your actions. Think on the sort of man you will become should you continue along this path, and think especially on the consequences of your lies."

"Lies!" cried George woundedly, and then looked to his aunt Lizzy to defend him as his late mother would have. Finding no assistance, the boy pouted, seeing no way out of repercussion, and murmuring under his breath the unfairness of it all.

"What was that, George?" said Elizabeth sharply.

"Nothing, Aunt."

"I should hope not," Darcy cautioned. "Now go to the schoolroom, George. Bloody learn something. And do as you're told, for God's sake!"

Brooking no further argument, Darcy gave the boy his back once more. With tears in his eyes, George looked to his aunt Lizzy for the smallest measure of support. Repeating the order in a gentler manner, she mouthed "I'll talk to him," and sent the boy away. Once the door was shut did she approach her husband, whose angry stare remained out the window.

"May _I_ say something, Mr. Darcy?"

"So long as it is not in his defense, Mrs. Darcy."

"You are that certain George was lying; that he did not act alone?"

"Indeed I am. He's not the talent for deceit as—some men—but he certainly puts forth his best effort. And how it pains me when he lies."

"I know, darling." She drew closer and put her arms around him. "But we will break him of it. Together. By making him see that it is not worth the effort."

Darcy hugged her against him, finding comfort in their contact. "It pains him, too," he mused, "but for some reason he feels it necessary, as you said, to protect someone. It is my belief he's made an ally of one of the stable hands." His voice quieted to explain further, "As skillfully as he charmed my father did Wickham command the absolute loyalty of many a dim-witted servant. By the time of Papa's death, he had a substantial portion of Pemberley's staff in his pocket or under his thumb, one way or another."

"And so you mean to have our nephew work like a pack mule alongside whomever you believe little George to have gained favor, friendship, and ostensibly treacherous devotion?"

Darcy glanced at the door, mindful that George's ear may very well be pressed to the other side of it. "That boy," he whispered, "will learn to take orders as his cad of a father never could. He _will_ honor this house and our rules that apply to _all_ of our children. Moreover, I mean to fish out the insubordinate and have him dismissed." Darcy then shared with her this morning's conversation with Hodges, who, even as a lowly stable boy, was ever wise to Wickham's artfulness, and never fooled by his charm.

"Hodges will keep an extra close watch over his team. This alliance will be severed, and George will see that he is not so clever as he thought."

"Listen to yourself," Elizabeth chided, "how determined you are to think the worst of him."

"I am determined to make the best of him, even if he should hate me for it. Of a truth, I might consider myself a right failure, should he love me as his father did mine."

"Good heavens, William," his wife lamented, "must it be this way? George has been through so much already. Must it include such conflict with his own uncle."

"That is entirely up to him, my dear."

"You used to be the best of friends, do you remember? When he was just a wee thing, you would pick him up, hold him high in the air and cry, "Fly, little skylark, fly!"

Darcy smiled at the memory. "'Higher still and higher," he quoted, "'from the earth thou springest—'"

"'Like a cloud of fire,'" the couple finished in unison.

"Ben grew out of that game quickly," Elizabeth went on, "and now more than ever keeps low to the ground, feet to the floor. I once overheard him say to George, who was positively stir crazy after three days of rain, 'Climbing trees is no great sport. Let us have a game of billiards,' as though he were done with boyhood altogether. No more nonsense. No more mischief. Whereas George, till he'd gotten too big, was still begging you to make him fly. He was happier. _You_ were happier. How things have changed as he's grown older, especially since he's come to live with us."

Darcy ceded this point, "—although I must submit another, my dear. You had only sisters and, with all respect, have less understanding of boys. And at George's age is a father's guidance more crucial than any friend ever could be."

"Fair enough, but what of the garden party? Is he to be barred from that, as well? Made to sweep up the stables while all the other children play as children ought. How humiliating! Oh, this will not do, William. His cousins treat him differently as it is, and I'll not invite their cruelty by such harsh measures."

Her words cut him, as any expression of _her_ doubt shrank his confidence as none other's. "Have you no faith in me at all?" he asked passionately. "Do you really believe I would subject George to such treatment?"

Her temper eased at this proclamation, and she softly replied, "Forgive me, dearest. Please believe that I am on your side. I only implore you, not as a stern disciplinarian, but as an adoring mother, to take our nephew's situation, his sensitive nature, and the potentiality of _their_ scrutiny to heart. I speak not to cast doubt on your affection for George. I know you love him as your own."

"Then trust my methods, Mrs. Darcy," he said gently, patiently, and with a swipe of his thumb smoothed over the worried crease in her brow. "As I rightly punish, so shall I reward. A week of toil, and then I'll decide. Or rather, young Mr. Wickham will decide."

She nodded slightly, and Darcy leaned in to lay a kiss to his dear wife's forehead. "This is the only way, Mrs. Darcy. You will see."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

For the next five days, George bore his punishment as he imagined would any convict awaiting transport to Botany Bay, cleaning saddles and bridles, shoveling droppings, whitewashing stalls, and plenty more jobs in-between. Five miserable days, beginning with four hours in the schoolroom, then another three with Mr. Hodges, who surpassed even Miss Baxter in his standards, expectations, and general suspicion. In view of the acknowledged misconduct, George could understand to some degree the lack of trust, but the expression of dislike in the man's countenance, moreover the detectable sneer in his voice when he addressed him as _Mr. Wickham_, seemed a bit excessive, as though the name did not suit him but in the _least_ flattering regard, like "grub" or "earwig." It called to mind how his uncle Darcy, on occasion, pronounced the epithetical _little George_ with a similar inflection, and by now was George truly at a point where he should much prefer the descriptor be dropped entirely. He was no longer _little_, after all. Not quite the tallest (Ben held that distinction), but the eldest of all his first cousins; only by two months, but still the eldest! He took pride in that fact, and felt himself deserving of more respect by its virtue.

'Twas certain his mother would never have stood for her dear boy to be put to work like a common servant; and though Mr. Darcy had professed to mastering every task to which he was assigned, George reckoned few gentleman of consequence suffered such smelly, tedious, tiresome toil for a succession of days at so young an age, nor could he picture Ben Darcy demeaning himself in such a manner, no matter what rules he had broken.

George's favorite sound was the ringing of the work bell, when he would then drag himself back to the house, knackered, greeted passively by whatever footman provided him entrance. Through the reception hall he'd lumber, and then up a long flight of steps to his quarters for a brief nap. At the onset of dusk he was awakened by Ben to wash up for dinner, although he was often too tired to partake in more than one or two courses (perhaps a third, if one counted dessert). In the dining hall he was affably received by his aunt, uncle and cousins, who then filled the next hour talking of pleasanter things than the drudgery of stable work while George listened and ate in silence, hoping in vain for a word of understanding or recognition.

After dinner, the next hour was always spent in the music room, little Malcolm reliably the first to suggest one song or another for his brother or sister to play whilst he sang along in a flawless treble voice. For his own part, George had never taken much of an interest in music, and in truth often fought the urge to doze during these family recitals. Not that they were excruciating, but he could not help anticipating the final strains of Ben's violin or Janie's harp, thus signifying the eight o'clock hour, when the children congregated in the nursery for one last period of recreation before bed.

It was at this time and on this particular week, that George could somewhat depend on a fair amount of sympathy from his cousins. Malcolm was especially quick to offer compassion when George spoke of hard-hearted Hodges, whereas Ben Darcy was more apt to scoff at his "whinging" before proposing a game of whist. George rather preferred a more active diversion like blind man's bluff to cards, and so the four of them took a vote in which the livelier game usually won, leaving Ben with a touch of annoyance to George's sense of victory; but in their subsequent enjoyment was any prior conflict forgotten by the time the two boys retired to their shared quarters, where Pemberley's heir performed his nightly routine of reading one chapter in bed before blowing out his bedside candle at almost exactly nine-thirty.

He had done just that on the evening before George's last day of work, and on George's whispering of Ben's name did he then hear an audible sigh in return.

"What is it?" Ben murmured, the faint glow of George's own candle barely sketching his drowsy expression.

"Has Uncle said anything to you about the garden party?"

Ben yawned deeply, over which he replied, "What do you mean?"

"You know…"

"I don't know."

"About whether _I_ may attend, as well!"

"Oh, that. No, he hasn't."

George blew out a sigh of disappointment.

"But Papa did mention," Ben added, "that he has received favorable reports of your work."

George perked up. "Did he, really? From Hodges?"

"Apparently."

"What else did Uncle say?"

"Nothing."

"Was he in good spirits? What of his tone? How did he sound?"

"Like he always sounds, George."

"Won't you ask him tomorrow, Ben?" George pleaded. "Please?"

"Ask him yourself."

"It would be better coming from you."

"No better, no worse; just be clear, concise, and do not stammer or talk nonsense. Now go to bed, George. It is late."

"Alright. But it really _would_ be better—"

"Goodnight, little George," remarked Ben in that superior tone George did not care for, and not one more word between them was exchanged.

George lay down, burrowed beneath the covers, his feelings mixed with equal parts encouragement and vexation as he fixed his gaze to the still-burning candle at his own bedside. Just one puff of breath would shroud him in total darkness, leaving him blind as a beetle till the first light of dawn, at the mercy of every creak and squeak, of the whistling winds from outside, of the pounding rain and crackling thunder on a stormy night. For some time he pondered – earnestly, this time – the notion of extinguishing the flame, to bear out the night in total darkness.

Courage rising, he raised up to do just that, quite determined to cast away the stigma of being _little George Wickham _still fearful of the dark, of creaks and squeaks, of conferring with his uncle on matters of import just as Ben did every afternoon after classes. Was he not closer to twelve than Ben Darcy? Was he not closer to manhood, already a gentleman of property, the true master of Longbourn while his _younger_ cousin was still an heir? Was he not the son of an exemplary officer and courageous war hero?

_But what about mice?_ George's mind cautioned as he then lowered his head back to the pillow, fatigue inducing a deep yawn. Mice were such filthy creatures, and in pitch darkness near impossible to detect till one crawled upon one's chest or neck. The very thought was most unsettling.

Reckoning he should take another day or two to think it through, George closed his eyes and fell fast asleep, allowing the candle to burn out on its own.

* * *

The following afternoon, George started at the jolly sound of Sam Cullen's voice.

"Oi, Georgie boy!" cried Sam as he peered into the stall to find him scrubbing away on all fours.

George paused to acknowledge the smiling fellow, his good humor right stupefying given how close George had brought him to losing his situation; and so it was with apprehension he smiled back.

_Georgie boy_, he contemplated, and then decided he liked that name much better than _little George_. "You're not cross with me, Sam?"

"I ain't sacked, am I?" he answered furtively, looking from direction to another to ensure it was just the two of them about. In a hushed tone he added, "Gave us a good workin' over, Hodges did. But it all turned out."

George whispered back, "How did you get out of trouble, Sam?"

"How'd ye' think, boy? I lied! Lied me arse off!"

George snickered at the profanity so profoundly disapproved of in the Darcy household. "I lied, too, Sam. I told Uncle Darcy that I acted alone after owning to the transgression."

"'Owning to the transgression,'" Sam mocked. "Now don't be gettin' haughty like them gentry fellows. You're better than that, y'know."

George smiled again; for he could always count on good ol' Sam to lift his spirits. His smiled faded when he thought back on being scolded. "He didn't believe me, though."

"'Cause he don't trust ye', boy—not like he does his own bairn. Wager he'd believe whatever Master Ben told'im, ye' reckon?"

"I don't reckon Ben would lie," George said guiltily. "Nor Janie and Malcolm, either."

"But then they always toe the mark, don't they," Sam countered. "Can't be vexin' ol' Pater, now can we. Better mind ye' manners, else he might cut us off, leave us without a penny."

"Not sure they think about that sort of thing, Sam. I don't think they do. I don't know."

"Oh, you'll know soon enough," Sam returned with a wink. He held up a length of rope. "I'm to take Miss Janie's deer out for a walk. Come on out wit' me, boy. Get some air."

"Can't do it, Sam. Hodges said he was coming back directly, and if I'm not finished…"

Sam swung open the gate and entered. Grabbing a brush, the man fell to his knees and began scrubbing alongside him, well outpacing George's brush strokes with only half the effort. Within minutes the job was done. "There we are! Got some free time now, don't ye!"

George thanked him profusely for the help, to which Sam replied simply that that's what friends do, merrily adding, "You 'member that, Georgie Boy."

"Will do, gov," George cheerfully replied, and Sam ruffled his hair.

A bit later, George and Sam were relishing their afternoon walk along the scenic countryside, the latter towing Aries with the rope secured loosely about his long neck. Attentively Sam listened to George's complaints about the week's toil with its due sympathy, and afterwards congratulated his fortitude while denouncing ol' Hodges as an iron-handed tyrant. They traded barbs at the man's expense, putting George in an even better mood, and from his pocket Sam offered him a shiny red apple, observing how he must be hungry after such a long day. George took it gladly, thanking him again, and wishing everyone could be just like good ol' Sam.

As he enjoyed his snack, George cut a backwards glance at Aries. "Look at that, Sam!" He pointed to the pronged bit of bone sprouting three or four inches from the deer's scalp. "He's grown a new spike!"

Sam glanced behind him. "Well, that he has, Georgie boy. Ain't a yearlin' no more, is he. Another couple o' years and he'll have himself a fine pair of antlers. Shame it won't matter, though."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"Looks like your uncle's changed his mind about the free-rangin'."

Though delivered casually, George was astounded by this bit of news; for his uncle had long declared Aries formed rather for nature than domestication, his ultimate intentions for the animal, despite all objection, never open to dispute. "Changed his mind? Are you sure?"

Sam nodded. "Settled earlier. To appease Miss Janie, is what I heard. Quite a scene, apparently."

"What happened?"

"Word is that Mr. Darcy was all set to have him released into the west wood, as it's spring and all. But instead of biddin' him farewell as agreed upon, Miss Janie took to weepin' and beggin' till the master melted like beeswax. Master of Pemberley, indeed. But Princess gets what Princess wants, I suppose."

"Why should she not have a say in what happens to him?" George snapped before explaining how the deer truly belonged to Janie for how well she'd looked after him these two years, how deeply she cared for him, "—from the day she saw his mother killed. She even named him! What if someone took away your favorite pet, Sam? Might put you in high dudge—might put you in a nark, it would!"

"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Wickham," Sam laughed. "Didn't know you were courtin' the lady."

George flushed with embarrassment, to which Sam responded with a playful shove. "Just havin' a go, Georgie boy. I don't mean no disrespect to ye' cousin. In fact, I'm on your side. Would never be _my_ idea to put a tame fallow out in the wild to fend for itself. Right harsh, that is."

"Indeed it is!" George pointed off towards the deer's paddock. "Me and Uncle stood right over there, Sam, and I told him so. But then Uncle said it's for his own good."

"For his own death, more like." Sam looked again at the docile creature at his heels. "Just imagine a tender thing like that, roamin' about, waitin' for someone to come along and put feed down, what don't know a lynx from a barn cat. Might as well open a vein and ring the dinner bell. Don't seem right if ye' ask me. And no one has, o'course."

"But Uncle's had a change of heart, at least," said George, giving Aries a scratch behind the ear. "So everyone's happy now, aren't they?"

"Oh, the master weren't happy about it at all, from what I heard. That his mind got changed don't mean his heart was, boy. To be honest, I don't reckon a month'll pass before the deed is done in secret; some late hour, when we's all kipped down for the night. Come mornin' the young miss hears her buck's got out on his own. Escaped! Miss Janie's gutted and so's the master. 'Damn those blunderin' fools!' he cries, fist in the air. He mourns with his poor li'l lamb, gives her a cuddle, tells her he don't know how it happened. 'There, there, me dearest girl,' he says. 'We're all in anguish, but ain't nothin' for it now. How's about a kitten?'"

"Rubbish, Sam!" cried George. "I can't imagine Uncle Darcy saying or doing any of that."

"Masters do as they please, mate. And the richer the master, the less blame he admits to. Now don't be givin' me that look, Georgie boy. I ain't sayin' your uncle's bad, or even wrong. His kind's just used to havin' their way, is all. And you can be sure Mr. Darcy ain't no exception."

"You really don't think much of our kind. Do you, Sam?"

"_Your_ kind? Don't be foolin' ye'self, Georgie boy."

"What do you mean? I _am_ a gentleman!"

"Oh, you's a gentleman, eh? Just like Mr. Darcy?"

"Not like Uncle, but—but more than Ben Darcy, I am!"

"And how's that?"

"Ben's just an heir, and an heir is nothing till he inherits everything. Whereas _I_ am Mr. Wickham, Esquire, master of Longbourn, a flourishing estate of three thousand a year."

"Been practicin' that one, have ye'?"

George colored again. "'Tis what my mother used to say. And don't you call my mother a liar!"

Sam raised up his hands in submission. "Wouldn't dream of it, mate. So you're a man of property then?"

"I am."

"Well, ain't you the dog's bollocks! That why you been workin' the stables all week, _little George_?"

"Don't call me that!"

"Why not? That's what you are to _them_, ain't it? Your aunts and uncles, ye' cousins? That' how _they_ see ye', they do. What's your measly portion to any one of them Darcy lambs? What's three thousand a year to twenty? Just who'd ye' think _you_ are, George Wickham? You think _they_ see _you_ as a gentleman? You think the Earl and Countess of Matlock regard _you_ just as they would a Darcy, or a Bingley, or all the rest of that Fitzwilliam lot? What about the Russells just up the hill? Ain't your uncle John the son of a duke?"

"Younger son," George murmured.

"There, ye' see? Perfect example, them Russells! Reckon ain't no lady kinder _or_ richer than the master's own sister, but he still made sure she married above her station, didn't he. That's what they're about, Georgie boy. Ye' gotta look closer. Pay attention. Don't be mistakin' their pity for affection, their rooted manners for esteem. And don't be forgettin' your _real_ distinction, at least to any of _them_, is that of bein' orphaned at the age o' ten."

Feeling tears in his eyes, George glared up at Sam and proclaimed in his master's voice, "You forget yourself, sir." But this only produced the opposite of its desired effect as Sam burst into laughter.

Overcome with embarrassment, George was struck with the urge to run away, but not three steps were taken before Sam halted him with a booming command.

"Come on back here, lad," the man then uttered in a much gentler tone. "Come and talk to ol' Sam."

George hesitantly complied, sweeping away tears as Sam bent at the knees, his grizzled features relaxed and eyes full of compassion. "I was out of order," he said tenderly. "Sometimes me tongue runs faster than me brain. Can ye forgive a stupid ol' git?"

Though George still felt sore, Sam's kind eyes and sincere tone prompted an immediate nod. The man smiled again. Warmly.

"You're a good man, George Wickham. Don't let nobody tell ye' different. Truth be told, you're the best thing on these grounds, the genuine article. They made ye' eat crow for takin' out that horse. They called ye' naughty, like you're a bad seed. They made ye' shovel shite, for pity's sake! And they wanted ye to squeal on ol' Sam, ye' best mate in the whole world. Stab'im right in the back. But ye didn't. Now that's a _true_ gentleman, Georgie boy, is a man what's true to his friends, what takes a chance and welcomes a li'l danger now an' then, like real men ought. Just like ye' father did, right? You think Lieutenant Wickham always played by _their_ rules?" (George shrugged) "Well I'd wager he played by his own, I would. And men like that gets ol' Sam's respect. You may not have _theirs_, but you've always got mine, Georgie boy."

Sam rose back up, smiled, and bowed deeply. "At your service, Mr. George Wickham, Esquire."

George smiled his appreciation, and the two of them resumed their walk, their conversation settled on horses as a pleasanter topic. They talked of warm-bloods like the Holsteiner, a handsome breed outwardly indistinguishable from the hot-bloods but inwardly possessing not their speed, agility, or pureness of lineage (Pemberley's library supplied many books on horses, and George had perused every one of them, finding the breeds fancied superior to others most enlightening). But their chat was cut short when Sam spotted a lone rider up ahead.

"Keep ye' head down," he muttered. "Blueblood's comin' this way."

George peered out to distinguish the obscure image gradually taking shape as the rider, clutching a colorful bouquet, advanced head-on towards them.

"No worries, Sam! It's just our neighbor Sir Frederick, from the Kingston estate."

"Don't I know it," Sam brusquely returned. "Fussy ol' bugger demands his horse groomed clean as a new penny at every call."

"He's never been unkind to _me_," George argued.

"And _all_ kindness to Master Ben, I'll bet." Sam winked.

"To all of us, Sam!"

"Open them eyes o' yours, Georgie boy. Bare minimum is the best _you're _gettin' from the likes of him. Just you watch; he'll pass us right by with hardly a glance. Won't know ye' face from Adam, just that shirt and them shoes. Ye' ain't nothin' but a wee stable boy on this day, no matter what you be the next. Keep ye' head down, I said."

"I beg your pardon, Sam, but you are entirely wrong. Sir Frederick should recognize me sure as he would Ben or Janie or Malcolm. Not to boast, but I have dined in his company half a dozen times or more."

"That so? Then I stand corrected! Go on and bid him good day as he passes, why don't ye'?"

"What—dressed like this?"

"May confuse him a bit, but he won't be unkind. He knows ye', after all. Or does he?"

"He does!"

"Go on then."

George accepted the challenge, agreeing not to mention his own name in the greeting, and once Sir Frederick came within distance gave a short bow and the friendliest of salutations. "Good afternoon, Sir Frederick!"

At once the man brought his mount to an abrupt halt, steering back to glare down at them as he drew his black stallion closer to where they stood, the pretty bouquet in his grasp quite the contrast from his severe gaze. To George's companion he curtly inquired, "You in charge of this boy?"

"Aye, sir," Sam answered in the meekest tone George had ever heard, eyes fixed more on the horse than the man himself.

"I suggest you school him properly. Consider this a warning."

"Aye, sir; won't happen again, sir," Sam submitted with even more humility.

George very nearly shouted, "_But it is I, Sir Frederick! George Wickham! Mr. Darcy's nephew!_" But the turn of his countenance put that notion to rest as Sir Frederick whipped around and kicked his horse back into motion, heading straight for Pemberley House.

George was stunned and dismayed as he watched the man ride off, soon feeling a light clap upon his shoulder.

"He's right ye'know," said Sam. "You stick wit' me, Georgie boy, and you'll learn plenty."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

George's unofficial lesson from Sam Cullen transpired concurrently with a meeting between his formal instructor and Mrs. Darcy, who, Miss Baxter found, took a decidedly more active interest in her children's education than most mothers of similar consequence. And so the two women convened on this afternoon as others to drink tea while they spoke candidly of her pupils and their week's progress, which was overall satisfactory.

Of the four of them, Miss Baxter observed, only Miss Janie had demonstrated a noted lack of attentiveness due to mounting concerns over her cherished buck, whose ultimate fate had always been matter of contention between father and daughter since the day Mr. Darcy agreed, under stated conditions, to her taking temporary ownership of the animal at the unripe age of seven, the master's loving commitment to her happiness mixed with the desire to teach her responsibility among other significant values. In hindsight, Miss Baxter regretted not expressing at the time her misgivings about the arrangement, if only to gently caution her employers of its potential miscarriage. More inclined was she to guard her tongue in those days, as an in-built doctrine ruled never to break conformity in favor of honesty, generally considered a most damning trait of any servant, even the governess. Miss Baxter now knew better, that Pemberley was a singular household and the Darcys a singular couple, but not before Miss Janie had predictably agreed to every one of her father's stipulations, all visions of the future impaired by her youth and enthusiasm. And in step with her growing fondness for the animal was the young miss made to prepare for the inevitable detachment from this inherently wild creature better suited to free-ranging within the comparative sanctuary of Pemberley Wood than contained mostly within a smallish enclosure for her accessibility and amusement. As time went on, the master held fast to the conviction that his little girl would learn to value their limited time together, and then subsequently relinquish all claim to the animal in bittersweet but willing compliance. Meanwhile, as the fawn rapidly matured in size and temperament, so had the master's sense of precaution as he took pains to ensure its future protection, having him distinctively branded and the game-keepers well notified of his unique status, that Aries belonged as much to the property as the horse the master rode upon. Of his excellent character these actions spoke volumes, and Miss Baxter, having grown very fond of the Darcy family, became gradually more confident that such love and devotion would, despite the imminent heartbreak, command her pupil's ultimate gratitude and respect.

Conversely from Elizabeth's angle were such precautions ever considered by her fledgling daughter most insufficient, a mere brand she argued as no deterrent to a hungry wolf that would pounce upon her docile deer in the easiest of kills. From Janie's lips to her father's ears were a thousand "what ifs" expressed and answered to her utter dissatisfaction, a thousand attempts to reason and rationalize in her sweet but simplistic manner. And as a full year went by, and the months before another spring turned to weeks, and then days, William came to realize that he in fatherhood had become a living protagonist in a Burns poem, that _the best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men_ often do go awry. And indeed were his best intentions undercut by virtue of his darling Janie's unwavering attachment to the animal.

Regardless of his ultimate capitulation, Elizabeth would credit her husband for his strength of will leading up to the task a loving father did not look forward to, and could have easily delegated. For the purposes of consolation had she, too, been present for the woeful event, which occurred early in the afternoon, just after the children's lessons. Whilst Ben and Malcolm took to the garden maze and George to the stables, Janie followed her father out to the deer's paddock, her tears like a knife to William's heart as she wept openly, despairingly, imploring him to reconsider, to delay her pet's release for just one more year, and then she promised to accept it without a word. Even as Elizabeth held the girl, stroking her crown of dark curls as William calmly explained (for the umpteenth time) the cruciality of this event, and the selfishness of her proprietorship over such an animal, it was a certainty in Elizabeth's mind that her husband could not withstand the effect his Janie had on him in such matters. Despite the sincerity behind his words, moreover the principles to which he so fervently ascribed and yearned to bestow upon her, in his tone and expression was the prospective buckling of usually steadfast resolve. At length he stopped talking, and so did Janie, her crying condensed to a series of muffled sniffs against her mother's sleeve. Love mingled with pain as William reached out and brushed the back of his hand over her hair, imploring once more that she trust his judgment. When she then quieted completely, and it seemed she might concede to her father's will, Janie turned to him, face wet and flushed, and declared honestly that she would try, but that her acceptance of his decision made it no kinder, more justified, or more forgivable.

"And on that declaration the last thread gave way," said Elizabeth to Miss Baxter in her weary recounting of the event; for the governess knew as intimately Janie's immovable stance on things she placed at the highest level of importance.

"Poor Mr. Darcy," said Miss Baxter, "to be at the mercy of a child one loves so well as he."

Miss Baxter's license to speak just as she found was an altogether strange and unique benefit afforded to her, but one that Elizabeth had insisted upon right from the start. Though respect was an absolute given, it was her own personal philosophy, that to be placated and pandered to served neither of them, and certainly not the children to any meaningful degree. Most hesitant at first, Miss Baxter had lately complimented her sensibility and lack of vanity as a most refreshing change of pace, although it took more than a year to adapt to it.

Said Elizabeth, "I find we are both guilty in that regard, Miss Baxter; for I too had not the will to check Janie's obstinacy as I should have. Not only did I feel her pain as acutely, but in the moment was reminded of my late beloved father, who had always cheered my inclination to put up a good fight, especially to my mother, who very often was unreasonable."

"But do you really find the master's view to be unreasonable, ma'am?"

"Of a truth, I am not wholly committed to one side or the other with regards to the matter itself. But that is a paltry excuse for my ineptitude; for I know my husband to be an excellent man. Moreover, he is her _father_, well-meaning and worldly, and by all decree—biblical and otherwise—should therefore be honored."

Lacking perfect confidence in her own words, Elizabeth looked to Miss Baxter for a counter-argument, and after thoughtful contemplation the woman replied:

"Our Christian values so often conflict with our emotions, which tend to supersede biblical edicts. Such flaws are precisely why we are in need of God's forgiveness. But loving parents, I have found, generally know what is best for their children; and parents so uniformly involved in their upbringing as you and the master may generally count on complete success, despite the occasional…unpleasantness. There _is_ room for indulgence, ma'am, so long as it is not mistaken for entitlement, the latter of which I have found most detrimental to a child's development."

Elizabeth nodded in accord. "Janie has not a demanding nature, but a very spirited one. It is a trait her father adores in her, except of course when he is the unfortunate victim of it." She heaved a sigh of resignation. "Well, it is done now, Miss Baxter. Mr. Darcy has made his promise, and in a year hence shall we come to this juncture once more. Here is hoping our daughter will see things differently in such time, and that _we_ have the better sense not to be bothered."

Elizabeth raised her tea cup, and then drank to this wish before the subject was changed to that of her nephew, which thankfully ensued a more uplifting exchange. Generally conservative with her praise, Miss Baxter gave a liberal amount to the good efforts in both studies and behavior George had exhibited throughout the week, his eagerness to never again serve such a penance proving a strong incentive. Elizabeth could not have been more pleased to hear of his improvement as the two ladies chatted for the better part of an hour, each in full agreement that the disciplinary measures appeared to have served their purpose to the best of outcomes. Elizabeth looked forward to sharing such praise with her husband, and thus settling the question of whether George, congruent with Hodges's compliments, had well earned the privilege of attending tomorrow's party with all the rest of his cousins.

On that head was their tea interrupted when an announcement was made of an unforeseen caller, namely Sir Frederick Blackwell, respectfully requesting a brief audience with Mr. _and_ Mrs. Darcy. Elizabeth was shocked to be included in this request, considering her rather unfavorable history with the gentleman, their common disapproval and lack of common understanding sturdily rooted over the course of her marriage. As they mixed in the same circles, in their innumerous visits to various social gatherings had they sought to avoid, managed to endure, but hardly took pleasure in one another's company. And now, after twelve years of strained civility and stilted conversation, was he openly declaring a wish to speak with her; for even in the weeks leading up to the party had he made nary an effort to pay respects to the woman who had arranged it all, and whose influence he felt so very crucial to his own marriage. Thus her interest was piqued as she excused Miss Baxter to receive him.

Frederick entered the room slowly, eyes catching hers in a look of marked unease. He held almost protectively to his breast a mixed bouquet of blossoms and buds interspersed with colored branches, the pretty arrangement secured with a shimmering white ribbon. He smiled, then greeted her with deep reverence, declaring it a pleasure to see her and speak with her on this fine day. Masking her astonishment, Elizabeth returned his regards with equal courtesy (and no doubt equal inelegance) as William mercifully appeared as summoned, eyebrows raised in surprise when Frederick extended the bouquet to Elizabeth as a gift from his wife.

"Freshly cut from our gardens," said he, noting the sprigs of lavender Priscilla had thought perfectly suited to the lady.

Elizabeth thanked the gentleman sincerely, still reeling from the shock of this uncharacteristically selfless gesture. "And I should dearly love to thank Priscilla, as well," she said as the bouquet was passed to a footman for its immediate conveyance to a proper vase.

"And so you shall this very evening," Frederick replied, "should you and Mr. Darcy do us the great honor of your presence at Kingston for dinner."

The couple started. "Tonight?" said Darcy, and trading glances with Elizabeth confirmed their likeness in thought; for the notice was indisputably (one might say indecorously) ill-timed. There was still so much to do before the party, so many loose ends to tie up, that the request seemed almost impossible to accept.

No sooner did the couple begin stammering in their search for the politest way to decline, that Sir Frederick declared their visit this evening a particular wish of Lady Blackwell, just arrived from Melbourne mere hours ago. "My wife has especially missed _your_ company, Mrs. Darcy, and before the party should like to extend her warmest regards to you personally."

Replied Elizabeth, "I am indeed flattered, Sir Frederick. But for my own curiosity, sir, I must inquire why Priscilla did not accompany you to extend said regards."

The man hesitated, as if he had momentarily forgotten her tendency to analyze a request before accepting or refusing it, before answering confidently, "My wife is quite weary of travel, ma'am, however no less eager to entertain you at _our_ home, before we are to be entertained at _yours_. And for lack of correspondence between the two of you throughout this—rather taxing period—my wife finds herself most anxious to rekindle your friendship as soon as possible."

"Rekindle?" Elizabeth smiled. "Why I was not aware our friendship was extinguished," declared she with her usual lightheartedness to which the gentleman was usually less than responsive.

"No indeed," Frederick returned, embarrassment coupled with mild exasperation. In the strangest manner he began again, searching for a new line of reasoning as he once more beseeched the couple's presence at Kingston at their earliest convenience, his address so desperate that William was finally moved to exclaim:

"Good God! Frederick, what on earth are you about?"

On Darcy's demand Frederick dropped the ruse, and after a pained breath spoke in a still modest, but more natural inflection. "Pray forgive my coming here under a false pretense, but I am rather new to the circumstances in which I have found myself, and knew not a better method of winning some bit of your esteem, Mrs. Darcy, before coming right out with the mortifying truth." After another exhale, Frederick powered through his discomfort to say further, "There is a situation at Kingston that requires an immediate resolution, and my fruitless efforts have impelled me now to entice…to _ask humbly_ for your assistance, despite all you have contributed already, and for which I am entirely grateful…"

Frederick faltered, avoiding their eyes, to which Darcy replied, with the utmost concern, "You need not wrap any request in a handsome package, ol' friend."

"Indeed not, Sir Frederick," concurred Elizabeth. "Tell us what has happened, and we shall do our best to help."

* * *

Ben Darcy had not been in conference with his father a full hour when it was disrupted with the announcement of an unexpected caller seeking the master's immediate presence. On hearing that the visitor was Sir Frederick Blackwell, Ben noted his father's subtle change in temperament, from weariness to intrigue, and felt a shade of disappointment when his request to accompany him was kindly refused. However, on the premature adjournment of their routine consultation (with Accounts and Finance as this week's subject), and on being granted the remainder of the afternoon to himself, Ben had but a single purpose in mind as he hurried out to the garden maze, where he had left Janie and Malcolm just after her elated announcement of their father's decision to delay her fallow's emancipation for another year.

"Janie!" Ben called out as he entered the maze, peering in all directions and hearing her giggles interspersed with Malcolm's. "Where are you?"

"Nowhere!" Malcolm called back from some distance away. "Somewhere! Everywhere!"

"Find us if you can!" sang Janie from a closer, yet still hidden location. Whilst he searched for her, she teased, "How was your meeting today, Master Bennet? Pray tell us all about the accounts! We cannot wait to here!"

Ben followed Janie's voice down a winding path. "I am in no mood to play! Come out this instant!"

"What's wrong, Brother?" said Malcolm on his sudden appearance from an adjoining hedge row.

"Now, Janie!" Ben shouted with feeling, finally drawing his sister out of her hiding place.

"What is it, what's happened?" she asked fretfully as Ben stepped towards her.

Halting a foot from where she stood, he held his composure, heeding his father's words to him in the study: _Blame not your sister, Son; for this whole thing has been one massive mistake of judgment entirely on my part, _and then he said to her:"So Papa changed his mind about your precious Aries, did he?"

Confused by his angry tone, Janie answered in the affirmative, adding, "Ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

"I did ask!" Ben snapped. "And you are a liar. He did _not_ change his mind," then pointing a finger, "_You_ wore him down!"

"Papa said that?" said Malcolm doubtfully.

"Might as well have," Ben returned, eyes fixed on his frowning sister. "Say what really happened," he demanded, "that you sobbed and whinged and moaned till you got your way, didn't you?" He repeated forcefully, "Didn't you!"

"Mind your own business!" Janie shouted, and with that cry stuck out her tongue and then darted off down an empty path.

"Coward!" cried Ben, strolling along his own path as he sang loudly, "Princess Janie cries and pouts! Cross her, watch her scream and shout!"

Over his singing, Janie was arguing spiritedly, declaring that he cared not a whit for Aries and so naturally was indifferent to his fate. And the louder she argued, the louder Ben sang as Malcolm scurried alongside him, urging them to desist or they would all be in trouble. Ere long, all three voices at once were chiming deep within the labyrinth, each drowning out the other as Ben's rose even higher: "Princess Janie weeps and moans! Cross her, watch her wail and groan!"

And so it continued until a startling fourth voice suddenly rang out, "Shut your stupid mouth, Ben!" instantly silencing the Darcy siblings.

Alarmed, Ben whipped around to see George advancing with purpose, his expression fierce and pace swift. "George," he acknowledged, "What are you—"

A hard shove to Ben's chest stole his words and jolted him backwards, instantly igniting his instinct to retaliate with equal ferocity. Their skirmish was lively but brief as each refrained from throwing a punch, their shoving and blocking proving tiresome after a few short moments. But with their separation came no shrinking of animosity as the cousins glared at one another, catching their breath as they stood at arm's length.

"Just leave it, Ben," demanded George in a threatening tone.

Ben blinked and stared, as puzzled by the challenge as he was enraged. "_You_ leave it! This is of no concern to you!"

"Nor to you," George countered, "so kindly shut your gob."

"My _gob_?" Ben scoffed. "What's that tongue you've adopted? That of a street urchin?"

George mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" Ben dared him.

"I said you're a snobbish twit!" George snapped.

"And you're an officious little toad!—meddling in what you know nothing about!"

"I do know!—just as I know the matter's been settled, and between no one but Janie and Uncle Darcy. Go and tend your own garden, _Master Ben, _and leave Janie to hers."

"You impertinent dog—who do you think you are?" Ben exclaimed, his temper irretrievably lost. "This is a family matter and—last I checked—_you_ are not a _Darcy_."

"I don't give a damn."

Malcolm gasped. "Language, George," he softly chided, his added plea that they each stand down and shake hands falling on deaf ears.

With but a moment to consider his next move, Ben sneered at George with disgust and muttered, "You sound commoner than you smell, stable boy."

George's eyes narrowed and fists clenched. "Says the prig with nothing better to do than taunt little girls."

"What's a prig?" asked Malcolm.

At last Janie appeared, saying gently to George, "I'm not that little," then angrily to Ben, "And you're not Papa!"

"Go to the nursery, Janie," Ben ordered.

"I will not!"

"At once!"

"No!"

"Let her alone, I said," George cautioned once more, to which Ben retorted spitefully:

"Or what, _little_ George?"

* * *

Despite the sudden onslaught of crises within a short span of time, it was no small relief to Mr. and Mrs. Darcy that their troubled neighbor, whose urgent dinner invitation was newly accepted, had just taken leave of the premises when Janie and Malcolm came sprinting into the drawing-room. To their parents the frantic pair then proceeded to deliver alternating, inarticulate reports of Ben and George coming to blows in the garden maze after a heated quarrel, their brawl ended only with Miss Baxter's arrival and immediate intervention. The couple, as they listened, stood in mute astonishment, each privately hoping their children were weaving a tale made largely of hyperbole. However, their highest expectations were instantly dashed when the governess marched in moments later, dragging along her two discolored, disheveled pupils by their shirt collars.

Some time later stood two highly disconcerted parents before a large sofa, upon which sat George and Ben at opposite ends, the latter applying a chilled slab of meat to his blackened right eye while the former held a handkerchief to his bloodied nose. Both were somber, shame-faced, and neither seemed inclined to speak a word of what had transpired. Not that it was necessary, as Miss Baxter had dutifully given her own account of what was seen, with her two eyewitnesses providing their personal (yet uneven) assignments of fault.

Elizabeth, staring the boys down with arms crossed, was still as a statue, her temper observed as decidedly ill; hence, as the calmer of the two took Darcy the liberty of speaking first.

"And so we have the _first_," he began solemnly, "though probably _not_ to be the last of your physical altercations. Perhaps the deeper rationale beneath your perceivably petty dispute might be found by means of a long line of questioning, were it to serve any fruitful purpose to examine the collective thought process of two sophomoric, beef-witted juveniles; for I, too, was a youth at one time, after all. But be assured that, in terms of violence, the proverbial '_Boys will be boys_' applies not to this household, and that such intemperate, ungentlemanly conduct _shall not be tolerated._"

Feeling the slow decline of his equanimity, Darcy took a breath to check the severity of his tone before continuing with a cooler head and gentler voice: "Based on what we have managed to piece together, we think it fair to cast upon you an _equal_ share of culpability to be thus considered in the administration of your punishment. Had either of us been present to personally witness the occurrence might we very well have found your guilt disproportionate, but at our disadvantage must we rely heavily upon intuition. I will speak not for Mrs. Darcy, but for my own part find this all to be…" (another pause to collect himself) "…very disheartening. So dearly had I hoped this day would never come, and from your infancy till now have I taken such pains to prevent it. But 'the best laid plans,' I suppose…"

Trailing off, he cut a glance Elizabeth, who now looked similarly aggrieved.

"We shall work harder," he then vowed with confidence, "and, despite this ugly incident, remain determined, Mrs. Darcy and I, to see your friendship endure. Don't we, my dear?"

He reached out to her, and then taking his hand in solidarity said she, returning his smile, "Always, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy took a moment to admire his wife's lovely expression before turning his attention to Ben, whose blush was deep and one good eye red with unshed tears. "Have you anything to say, Son?"

Swallowing hard, the boy looked at his cousin and muttered, "Sorry, George. I take back what I said about…everything. Hope you can forgive me, Cousin."

There was a moment's silence before Ben's apology was returned with a whispered, "Alright then. Sorry about your eye."

Ben smirked. "Sorry about your nose. Didn't break it, did I?"

"No. Didn't blind you, did I?"

"No!"

The boys began sniggering, and then, to the couple's encouragement, shook hands of their own accord.

Then said Elizabeth, her mood vastly improved, "Do not presume, my dear boys, that this mutual concession marks the happy avoidance of repercussion."

"No indeed," Darcy concurred. "There is still much to consider before tomorrow's party. Mrs. Darcy and I intend to think this over very carefully, and in the morning shall deliver a final ruling." He then explained without detail their immediate dinner engagement at Kingston, and that the two of them were to take supper (and the few remaining hours of the day) within the confines of their quarters, "—with meager rations and the hopes that you will use that time to settle your differences as true gentlemen."

"One more infantile occurrence like this," warned Elizabeth, "and you will find yourselves back in the nursery swiftly and permanently. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," the boys returned, each delivering the sincere promise to never let it happen again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: I've re-edited chapter three to include more exposition, specifically how little George came to inherit Longbourn. You will find it in the fourth paragraph down.**

Chapter 6

The Darcys had managed – with the aid of a devoted and dutiful staff – to settle the remaining details of tomorrow's event just in time to prepare for their dinner engagement. En route to Kingston the busy couple were still mulling over the most recent set of quandaries laid so abruptly at their charge, the thorniest of all linked to the domestic dilemmas of one Sir Frederick Blackwell.

It had been rather assumed than settled, that the Darcys' involvement would extend no further than the garden party, after which life was meant to return to normal, with a marriage mended and felicity restored. But fate, it would seem, saw things differently, as a once lukewarm fellowship between neighbors was fast becoming a thoroughly exploited alliance, with the couple ostensibly serving as the sole fibers binding together this once illustrious family. Not that Society had an inkling of what the Darcys knew. By their circles was Frederick Blackwell still considered a model of excellence, a perception maintained through generations of practice; and even his two pillars would concur that the entire Blackwell package, with its elegant trimmings and striking veneer, was a lovely one indeed, so long as it remained unopened.

Since the revelation of his wife's infidelity had it been ascertained, that Frederick held with very few a close personal bond, a fact to which he was loath to admit, but nor could he deny. This deficiency coincided with the apparent deterioration of his family, given his absence of offspring, an ailing patriarch, a mother dead, and a younger sister now married and settled abroad. The Darcys reckoned Frederick's political history might have also played a part in his appeals to their generosity; for in trustworthiness somehow fell all other connections short. And so the couple inadvertently found themselves bound to the gentleman now applying for more assistance, though their _significance_ with regards to this all-new debacle remained unclear.

According to Frederick, who was as ill-disposed to embellishment as he was to indignity, the whole awful scene began almost the moment his wife returned to him after a five-week departure.

Priscilla's arrival, claimed he, could not have been planned more efficiently. In adherence to Darcy's counsel had he gone to excessive lengths to ensure her absolute comfort and contentment, demanding the kitchen be amply stocked with her favorite foods and the whole manor adorned with her favorite blooms. By their scores of servants was she to be treated no less than royalty, and to that end was it made plain that no order was too unreasonable (not that his sweetheart suffered a fastidious nature). At the sight of her coach making its way up the drive (with the upper servants in line to greet her), Frederick saw fit to congratulate himself already on a job well done, his nerves calm and prepared speech on the tip of his tongue as he assisted her from the carriage.

"_She looked so lovely, but so worried, the poor thing_," he had told the Darcys, _"and as keenly as I felt the lingering soreness of her betrayal was I determined to suppress it, to not bungle everything with a careless remark. My apparent good humor put her at ease, thank God, and as we entered the home I was further pleased to find in her countenance no sign of her father's influence, and every indication that she had returned not merely for the party, but indefinitely. It was a marvelous feeling—but Oh! how fleeting it was before all hell broke loose!"_

The Darcys' chaise drove up to the front steps of Kingston Manor, where their host was awaiting them in a scarcely concealed state of agitation. Sparing not a moment, Frederick supplied upon their exit a more detailed version of the ugly incident which culminated in his young wife bursting into tears, and then racing up the stairs to her quarters, locking the door, and refusing to come out.

"Why Father chose to break routine on this of all days is inexplicable," Frederick lamented. "Weather permitting, the spring months generally find him content to spend all hours at his balcony, which affords an optimal view of the park and well beyond. On any given day might a number of callers be expected to arrive at our doorstep, all of whom go utterly ignored until this day—_this day!_ whenProvidence suddenly saw fit to mock me and attack my father with an irrepressible madness and rage! We had just taken breakfast, he and I, with no detectable change in mood when I then left him alone to receive Priscilla (he will not have a nurse in his room). Of a truth, Father's health within the course of her absence had shown considerable improvement, with a decided decrease in the usual symptoms. Only the odd occasion of erratic behavior, and not a single tirade. Apart from the usual bouts of senility, he seemed almost wholly in his right mind, and with that encouragement fell my guard. Am I to blame for this, Darcy, do you think? I ask you, how was I to know this would happen?"

His questions went ignored as Darcy said, "You prepared him well in advance for your wife's return, I presume."

"Of course, of course," Frederick confirmed, "and to this very day had he no other response than utter delight! Father has always thought the world of Priscilla, and she of him. Never a bad word between them, Darcy. Not one!"

"And never a cause, I would deduce, for him to feel towards her a high degree of hostility. Until recently," Darcy added pointedly.

Frederick yielded to the implicit accusation, saying guiltily, "I had thought—or rather, _hoped_ that he had forgotten."

"There should not have been a confession for him to forget," Darcy argued furiously. "It is bad enough that _we_ know, Frederick, but to burden an already stricken old man with this knowledge is beyond irresponsible!"

Frederick countered firmly, "It was an act of impulse, Darcy. Priscilla had just left me, and I was highly discomposed. What man would not have been?"

Darcy sneered at this answer, to which Frederick then sought Elizabeth's sympathy with the following: "Surely you as a woman understand, Mrs. Darcy, the supremacy of feelings over rationality in moments of severe emotional distress."

"About as well as I understand, _as a woman_, the disinclination to forgive the sort of cruelty that shook your wife into her current state."

His countenance hardened at this assertion, moreover at her nerve to express it. Frederick bit back a rejoinder, swallowed his pride, and pressed forward as the couple's escort through the reception hall, and then to the foot of the manor's grand staircase. "I was able to subdue him before the attack turned physical," said he, "but not before my wife endured an expletive-laden round of disparagements to her character and virtue. I beg you judge me not too harshly; for my grief over this is immeasurable. Weeks of preparation wasted! All my efforts dashed to bits in one fell swoop! I have tried, but there is just no defending what he did, the things he said…"

"But its attribution," said Elizabeth, "may be easily and _delicately_ explained."

"Not so easily," claimed Frederick, "given the similar conduct I displayed during our last quarrel. Now it is as if nothing at all has changed since the day she left me. Only by pure luck did she not make an immediate escape to the carriage and demand to be taken right back to Melbourne." His weary eyes met Elizabeth's. "She wept all morning, and my every attempt at consolation been rebuffed. I have respected her desire for privacy, but am growing rather…anxious. Only my offer to bring you here has elicited from her a favorable response and some hope for appeasement. Apparently _your_ voice and presence delivers far more comfort than my own. Please, Mrs. Darcy, won't you tell her how sorry I am, even though I have done so a thousand time over."

"I see no point in echoing your apology," said Elizabeth, "but shall gladly endeavor to speak to her, Sir Frederick. Not that it will do much good, as nothing I say would provide a solution to the problem of your father's…condition."

"Which is perfectly stable now, Mrs. Darcy, I assure you."

"_I_ am not the one to convince, sir."

"But that is why I need _you_, madam. To convince her. To coax her out of her room." He checked his pocket watch. "Ideally in the next half-hour, as dinner shall be announced promptly at seven." His voice lowered to almost a whisper. "Do indulge her in whatever topic she prefers, Mrs. Darcy; however, I must caution you: your official understanding of this incident and all details therein is ambiguous at best."

"I see," replied Elizabeth. "And of the—_incident_—that preceded this one?"

"Even more ambiguous."

She raised an eyebrow. "Officially, sir?"

"Officially, ma'am! As far as Society is concerned, a sudden illness in the family is what called Priscilla to Melbourne, and for my father's own health was I obliged to stay behind. For the good of everyone must this narrative be upheld. Apart from that, the conversation's course is left to your discretion and your" (he waved a hand dismissively) "highly accredited _wisdom_; though I've a few suggestions in mind, should you be in need of them."  
Elizabeth, trying not to show offense, replied stiffly, "I believe I can manage, sir."

"Excellent! I've the utmost confidence in you, madam. And Darcy, as for your part—"

"Frederick," Darcy curtly interrupted, "you stand to neglect a far greater priority than appeasing your wife or keeping gossip at bay, namely your father's dire need for expert medical attention. By and by, he must be removed to another location, away from Priscilla, away from _anyone_ who might be horribly affronted or even harmed—"

"Is that Darcy I hear?" a distant voice rang out. Everyone turned to see the elder Blackwell himself enter the hall, just as cheerful as a lark. "Why George Darcy, you ol' devil! It's been ages! How are you, man?"

With hand extended Blackwell grabbed hold of Darcy's and shook vigorously. "Just where in blazes have you been? Why have you and Anne not come round for tea?"

Darcy tentatively opened his mouth to correct the man, but Frederick instantly foiled the attempt, saying gently, "Papa, you remember _Fitzwilliam_ Darcy and his wife, Elizabeth?"

A flicker of recognition spurred the swift amendment of Blackwell's original greeting as he then exclaimed, "Of course—William! Looking more like your father every day, what? Tell me, what has ol' George been up to?"

With a fleeting glance at Frederick, Darcy answered courteously, "Resting, your Lordship, for the most part."

Blackwell nodded, then shifted his attention to Elizabeth, declaring how wonderful it was to see her again as he laid a kiss to her hand. "You are both staying for dinner, I hope. Indeed I insist! Frederick, have Priscilla fetched at once, and Clara, and your mother. Tell them the Darcys have arrived. Fitzwilliam, I would have you join me in a quick game of billiards while the women talk of whatever women talk of." He then excused himself and, shuffling towards the next room, repeated the order to have Frederick's wife, sister and mother come down. "Hurry now, my boy. There's a good lad."

* * *

"Priscilla? Dearest, can you hear me? It is Elizabeth Darcy. Won't you come out?"

After a few seconds' wait came a muffled reply. "Mrs. Darcy?"

"Now, now, Priscilla, I must insist on the suspension of ceremony if I am to address a door all evening. Call me Lizzy, won't you? Or perhaps we could meet face to face, my dear, whereupon you may call me whatever name you fancy most."

Elizabeth brought her ear closer to the door, hearing what sounded like either a whimper or a laugh, and then a second later startled at the subsequent unlatching and opening of the door.

A rose-tinted Priscilla Blackwell emerged, her celebrated beauty marred only slightly by the prolonged stint of grief. Despite her flushed appearance, at the sight of Elizabeth her mouth extended into the broadest of smiles.

"Oh, Lizzy!" she cried, throwing her arms around her. "I am so happy you've come! Please forgive the short notice—but how I've missed you!"

As the women embraced, Elizabeth asked, "How was Newton Park, dearest? Your family is in good health, I hope."

Pulling away, Priscilla answered in the affirmative, her expression wilted. Nervously she peered up and down the vast, empty hall. "Is he about?"

"Who—your husband?"

"My father-in-law. You do know he accosted me in the most frightening manner—"

"I know, dearest." Elizabeth then explained that she need not worry, that William and Sir Frederick were at present occupying his Lordship's attention in the Billiard Room. "He appears quite tranquil now, and in very good spirits. It think he has forgotten all about…what happened."

"For now," she timidly replied, "but I dare not show myself lest he becomes enflamed again. He used to be the kindest, dearest man, Lizzy—but now looks at me and talks to me as if I am despised."

Elizabeth shook her head. "It is purely his illness which provokes him—certainly not you. But I would not have you suffer again such an attack, nor would your husband. Priscilla, you really must speak to _him_ about this."

"Indeed I must. But I've not a way with words as you do, Lizzy. I do not command Frederick's attention so well as you command Mr. Darcy's. Oh, he hears me well enough, but…tell me, how does a wife compel a husband to really listen?"

"Well, by not hiding in one's room, for starters. Now is the time to be assertive—to tell Sir Frederick precisely how you feel and what you want. Uncomfortable as it may be, a married couple is obliged to work through their difficulties—" Elizabeth gestured towards the bouquet set upon the nearby console "—not shroud them in subterfuge."

"But they are the most beautiful flowers, are they not?" Priscilla crossed over to admire the arrangement. "He went to such trouble; he always does." She then turned to face Elizabeth, her expression more earnest. "But I still remember your words, Lizzy—that marriage is designed rather for the bad times than the good. May I confide in you? Secretly?"

"Of course you may."

"Things are not well between us at present. These are…bad times, I fear."

"Then you will sort them out, and stop cowering. A couple's resilience is reliant upon what they face together."

"Oh, but Frederick shares not your philosophy, Lizzy. He comprehends not the value or rewards in marital equality. He feels that a wife's devotion should be unconditional, and that his providing of wealth, comfort and security merits only the highest praise and gratitude. He thinks his manners practically perfect, takes my every hint at improvement as a criticism, and claims no responsibility for…for any unhappiness I might feel." She lowered her eyes. "Not that I am perfect, or have suffered no fits of folly myself, but…but if he would just listen…"

She fell silent, and Elizabeth gently subjoined, "Well, he does seem willing to listen _now_, don't you think?"

"I suppose so. But of late we have borne such anger and resentment over…this and that. I know not where to go from here, and my nerves…"

"Take it one day at a time, darling. Only when anger becomes indifference is hope dead in the water. We know he missed _you_ a good deal. Did you miss him?"

She smiled wanly. "Strangely enough, I did. Moreover, when I got to Melbourne found that I had not missed Newton Park in the slightest. It is hard to explain, but Frederick is so…different."

"I could not agree more," Elizabeth drawled.

"In a good way!" Priscilla laughed. "I dare say he is most agreeably dissimilar to my father, who is both humorless and overbearing. I know you find him pompous, Lizzy, but I have always been drawn to Frederick's confidence and swagger. Indeed I find it very attractive! Is that wrong?"

"It is not wrong, but neither is attraction the most formidable foundation to build upon."

"Ah, indeed. And what a labored construction is marriage! We separated not on good terms, Frederick and I; but, in Melbourne, how I longed for him to come for me as a princess awaiting her prince, to see him best my father in a battle of wits just as when he won my hand, and then to have him sweep me up and carry me off back to Kingston. But what a silly, girlish notion! I am a _wife_, for heaven's sake!"

"Aye, but a young one," remarked Elizabeth, "who, to her credit and singularity, appears to genuinely care for the man she married."

"I do love him, Lizzy. At least I think I do. Newton Park was such a bore without Frederick, and I am truly happy to be home, but…there are details, you see, apart from all I've said, apart my father-in-law's ailment, that I dare not speak of."

"And I dare not ask. But, I dare say you must manage these complications in a more peaceful environment. _You_ are Kingston's mistress, the true Lady Blackwell, and as such are entitled to feel safe in your own home."

"But this was his Lordship's home long before _I_ came along," Priscilla argued. "That poor man! How can I possibly demand he be sent away?"

Before Elizabeth could answer, their attention was drawn to the sound of Sir Frederick's voice from the far end of the hall. "Priscilla, darling," said he, "Father has something he wishes to say to you."

The two women observed as the elder Blackwell, under the watchful eye of their respective husbands, tentatively approached. Seeming to take no notice of Elizabeth's presence, the old man reached out to Priscilla, and looked grateful when she allowed him to take her hand. He said roughly:

"I owe you an apology, my dear girl. Frederick and Darcy have aided in rousing a most appalling memory, a viciousness of which I never knew myself capable. Of my actual words, I have not but the dimmest recollection, but—oh! you poor thing—how injured you must be! It was unpardonable, and though whatever was said cannot be unsaid, might I hope to one day have your forgiveness?"

He was patting Priscilla's hand tenderly, his head lowered as he made his speech. Given such sincerity and remorse could the lady do not but forgive him on the spot, her own eyes welling with tears as she gave a meek nod and lay a kiss to her father-in-law's cheek.

Frederick beheld the scene with visible optimism; and in expression, when he was at last able to take his lovely bride into his arms, conveyed much appreciation to the couple who had helped to bring a measure of calm to his tempestuous household.

* * *

By the eleven o'clock hour the Darcys were exhausted, and on the way home from Kingston found themselves barely able to stay awake. Nestled against one another for warmth, the couple spoke drowsily over the rattling of the carriage, further examining their respective roles with regards to the Blackwells, and the sort of roles they should be willing to play in the future. This led to a most agreeable conception of an extended holiday abroad, to commence very soon after the garden party. For the children, of course.

Luckily, both the dinner and evening as a whole went off without incident. While Elizabeth acted as a buffer between Frederick and Priscilla, lessening the tension between them as she steered every conversation in its pleasantest direction, Darcy played his part in keeping his Lordship occupied with reminiscence of happier times. Blackwell continued to speak fondly of Darcy's late parents, and of his and Frederick's early youth spent in perpetual competition with one another. The latter, to wearying effect, played never for fun but only to win, and not always in conformity with gentlemanly sportsmanship. But this character trait had proven in general quite an asset, serving well Frederick's political ambitions at a relatively young age, from the earning of a knighthood to a brief stint in Parliament. His liabilities, however, remained just as plentiful, especially on the personal side of things. Among them was a galling aversion to unsolicited advice, as when Darcy had once more suggested his father's illness be managed afar and in a more professional capacity, thus provoking a terse look and even brusquer response.

"I shall tend to that business," the man had said, leaving the impression that the subject was closed to further discussion. This reply, while submitted to without argument, would be undoubtedly remembered upon Frederick's next bid for reinforcement.

The evening had brought to mind Darcy's own family concerns, as well, the elder Blackwell's emphasis on nostalgia turning his thoughts frequently to George Wickham, the man he became, and the boy he used to be. Despite its ultimate corruption, fond memories of their shared youth still lingered, the days when Wickham was more friend than foe, the days that little George and Ben Darcy were now living through.

Their situation demanded reassessment, and a hearkening back to a bygone era, before a dark cloud fell upon Pemberley with the death of Lady Anne, before the passing of Wickham's father, before amity turned to envy, before friendship turned to hatred. Exactly how this transition occurred was still unclear, at least to Darcy. He only knew that it began at around the same age, between eleven and twelve, when the sort of resentment reserved for mortal enemies slowly manifested, ultimately spiraling into a series of conscious efforts to rain damage upon not only Darcy himself, but the people he loved most. He rejected the thought persistently, but was plagued by it nonetheless, that Ben and George might be doomed to the very same outcome, as if their destinies were preordained by some theological, unalterable prophecy.

This notion was raised to Elizabeth, who shook her head in dissent. "Our George is nothing like _him_," she murmured sleepily. "Though a bit unruly, he is good at heart. He stood up for our daughter, and at the risk of even harsher discipline. Would a young Wickham have done so?"

Darcy had no reply, and as their carriage reached the drive to Pemberley House was still unsure of the answer. Nodding off, he rested his cheek upon his wife's head. Neither had realized the carriage had rolled to a stop until the door was opened and the voice of Mr. Hodges was heard applying for the master's attention.

"We are very tired, Hodges," said Darcy, helping Elizabeth from the transport. "Can this not wait till morning?"

"If you wish, sir," answered he, "but I feared tomorrow's event might prevent me from speaking with you soon as necessary."

Through the haze of fatigue was disturbance read in his man's aspect, but before Darcy could grant or reject the appeal felt the touch of his wife's lips to his cheek when she then whispered, "Do not be too long. We've a long day tomorrow," and then proceeded up the manor's front portico, whereupon the master yielded and Hodges began:

"It's about your nephew, sir. We've found the young man's accomplice, and beyond a shred of doubt. His name is Sam Cullen, whose immediate discharge I heartily recommend."


	7. Chapter 7

At the end of Hodges's report, Darcy could not but feel himself fully accountable for the mistakes in judgement which led to the blurring of lines between classes, and the corruption ensued as a result. There was no excuse to be made; for he had been instilled from the earliest age (and so, too, had his children) with an ancient and generally well-adhered doctrine; that all in residence were of an established rank strictly bound to a particular code of conduct, and that the breaching of this code marked a serious disruption to the status quo. Though familiarity and formality varied with each rung of servitude, never was there a question that the preserving of hierarchy was essential to the running of an estate of Pemberley's magnitude.

The doctrine had indeed been sullied, and consciously so. And Darcy owned to his failing while admitting its explanation, that he and Elizabeth placed their loved ones over and above convention, even propriety, and thus allowed an exception to be made with regards to their troubled nephew. George had come to live at Pemberley under the most tragic of circumstances, and in the process of settling into his new situation was observed to be most at ease around horses in whatever capacity. In the Darcys' fervid wish to see him content were they moved, therefore, to extend the boy special consideration, granting him leave to spend a good part of his leisure time among the majestic creatures he loved, and supposing no real harm should come of it.

No decision, however, comes without consequences. For better or worse shall they manifest as the rain gives healthy harvests and ruinous floods. And as George grew accustomed to his new home, so had the stables become his haunt of preference, and George himself as much a fixture as the hands who tended it. All seemed well, at first, as the boy would usually keep to his own business and the workers to theirs; but naturally would the comingling lead to a less formal acquaintance, and a more casual camaraderie between superior and subordinates. This behavior was not only frowned upon, but utterly forbidden in any fashionable home, regarded as highly impractical and improper, an imprudence of epic proportions apt to suffer no end of societal scrutiny, and of which even Darcy himself disapproved in principle. Once or twice had he been thus inclined to discuss the matter with Elizabeth, who validated his concerns, but could not see clear to suspending that which gave her nephew the peace Lydia's death had so horribly disturbed. Her good faith could not be shaken; at least, not without good, sound reason, which came apparently on this very night as Hodges related the gradual (and secret) establishment of a singular rapport between George Wickham and a common workhand.

Hodges described this Sam Cullen as a most unassuming fellow, merely one of a great retinue of staff under his authority; relatively meek, in no way remarkable and by all accounts a simpleton. Only recently, when ordered to conduct a thorough investigation, did Hodges's findings reveal something more sinister beneath a veil of fawn-like timidity, namely a latent cleverness, filthy vulgarity, and overt insolence kept guarded in the presence of all but the master's eleven-year-old nephew. While Cullen's performance was never called into question, his past remained sketchy, his references dodgy. Meanwhile, George and his duplicitous comrade had been entirely unaware of the surreptitious studying of the boy's whereabouts throughout the week, his behavior, and, to the greatest extent, his conversations conducted within the confines of his work station, where a secreted spy could be relied upon to overhear whatever was said from a nearby recess.

The report was jarring; for Darcy had all along suspected little George the chief architect behind his recent string of mischievous exploits. Down to his bones he had felt the Wickham shrewdness rising to the surface, the boy's inherent propensities a dormant volcano set to erupt with the onset of adolescence, and his actions a detriment to a more gullible than knavish servant.

_How determined you are to think the worst of him_.

Elizabeth's words now ran guilt through his veins as every preconceived notion with regards to George's nature were amounting to very little but naivety and self-consequence, two decidedly nonfatal characteristics most common in juveniles, whether inherited or not. Darcy had dismissed his wife's censure, essentially claiming a superiority of wisdom and experience, but now it was fast becoming clear as it was mortifying, that his instinctive prejudice had yet again determined someone he loved as unworthy, as the endeared but unfortunate progeny of two deeply flawed, careless individuals decidedly beneath his own repute. The pattern, like his expertly designed garden maze, seemed to run in perpetuity. Just when he was certain he had learned from his mistakes would another error contend the contrary. To near devastating cost had such conceit polluted his feelings for Elizabeth, the love of his life, just as it stood to drive a wedge between him and George if more care was not taken, as well as more cognizance of who the real culprit might be.

"Turns out Cullen's about as innocent as poison, sir," said Hodges, concurrently scolding himself for not intuiting sooner the man's true character, "though I've not yet determined his ultimate purpose, what he had sought to gain from the boy."

"Frankly I care not," Darcy firmly declared. "I am only relieved that he was found out."

"As am I, sir," his man replied, and then asked the master if he may speak plainly. When permission was granted he then, looking thoughtful, offered an analysis of young Mr. Wickham from his own perspective. "He's an untamed spirit," said he, "but of a right sort, I think. I've misjudged him, Mr. Darcy, and for that I am regretful."

"Happens to the best of us, Hodges," said Darcy with a knowing smile. He then approved Cullen's dismissal, sternly adding, "A few hours' sleep, a scrap of food and a week's wages. No notice; no references. Off the premises by sunrise!"

Hodges acknowledged the order with a short bow and a humble, "Yes, sir."

* * *

George awoke that morning to find upon his nightstand a note he assumed outlined the details of his and Ben's punishment. The two of them had spent the prior evening in earnest discussion over the consequences that were to befall them both, and by retirement concluded that the party and all its tasty confections were well out of their reach, at best to be enjoyed from their shared balcony while the good children had a good piece of fun in the fresh spring air and sunshine.

With some apprehension was the paper unfolded, their miserable fate laid out in but a few lines. Taking a deep breath, George read the note as follows:

"_After much contemplation, we feel confident you will be on your best behavior, and work hard to earn the second chance we have seen fit to grant you. Enjoy the party, gentlemen! Yours affectionately,_

_Fitzwilliam Darcy _

_Elizabeth Darcy"_

The reaction that followed was nothing short of elation as George leapt from his bed over to Ben's, shaking him from a deep slumber to relate the good news neither had anticipated.

* * *

About an hour earlier, Sam Cullen had precious little time to think while he packed his meager belongings. He moved slowly, taking intermittent glances at the burly bloke called Angus waiting patiently at the door to escort him to the transport stationed just outside the camp. From there he would be removed to the nearby village of Lambton, where many a sacked servant had been discarded like the day's rubbish.

Throughout his life had Sam borne such treatment from the likes of _them_. Many times over had he been abused, oppressed, degraded and disregarded by those under which he served, as if he were a barely viable entity bred purely for labor, a mere cog in the wheels perpetually in motion to sustain _their_ perfectly posh existence, as easily replaceable as expendable. How stunned and helpless they would all be when those wheels abruptly fell off, sending their perfect world skidding into turmoil, and how rich he would be in the aftermath.

With a thump to the skull, Sam was roused from his cot and handed his walking ticket, and with a mere wave of his hand thought the arrogant master forever shut of one more lowly subordinate, an assumption which must be used to its best advantage. As Sam promised to leave without delay, already was it settled in his mind that he would not be deterred; for he had worked much too hard to have months of toil and weeks of planning fall through on the very day of the event that would set him and his cohorts up for life. This was merely a setback, one last hurdle in the bumpy road leading to his ultimate recompense.

The attainment of his situation at Pemberley had felt nothing short of miraculous, as if luck had deigned to smile upon him at a time when he could generally expect another kick in the arse. Sam believed most fervently in luck, that it rained down upon some in a torrent while the vast majority suffered a lifelong drought. Not a whit did the establishment care of what the unlucky endured, and for all their claims to virtue would not a one of them be caught dead in the rookeries and workhouses in which Sam was brought up, subsisting on stale bread and porridge, living in one hovel to the next, wearing a suit of soot after fifteen hours of chimney-sweeping or coal-mining.

He reflected often on the years spent toiling like an animal in the heart of London from one menial job to the next, scraping by on scant wages before some foreman came along and made him redundant. In between he had managed to find other lines of work, more lucrative ventures that might have sent an even unluckier fellow to the gallows; but then a narrow escape from a thievery charge ended him up in the Peak of Derbyshire, where an old innkeeper, moved by his tale of woe, kindly offered him room and board in exchange for work as a hostler. It was there he met Mr. Hodges, who had stopped at the inn on his task to find good hands for a place called Pemberley, an estate rumored to have no equal in size or significance. With his gift for cajolery and forged references in possession, Sam's luck had finally changed for the better.

That was six months ago, and ever since were his thoughts fully occupied with the massive fortune to be acquired with the perfect blend of patience, planning, luck…and collaboration.

"What happens now, Sam?" murmured his bunk mate pretending to sleep.

"Shut it, Baz." Sam looked off to see Angus and Hodges with their backs turned as they chatted. Seizing the opportune moment, he then whispered emphatically, "Get word to the boy."

"How?"

Sam's response was to strike at him like a snake, grabbing a fistful of Basil's shirt and jerking him from the pillow. "A bloody house maid!" he hissed through his teeth. "Must I think of everything?"

"Gwen," muttered Baz in a trembling voice. "She lights the fires, I think."

"Bloody see to it," Sam whispered fiercely, releasing him, "or I'll take the lot of you down with me."

"Right, Sam."

Suddenly was heard a forceful command: "Time's up, Cullen. Let's get a move on."

"Aye, sir. Sorry, sir."

A hundred thoughts ran through Sam's mind as he was walked out to the awaiting transport, a canopy of stars disappearing as the crack of dawn ignited the horizon. Given no explanation, just a brusque discharge and five minutes to gather his kit, Sam reckoned he must discern what went wrong in order to disentangle himself.

Was it possible George betrayed him to his uncle? _Definitely not, _Sam quickly dismissed, for the boy was long determined dog-faithful and duller than ditch water. Basil seemed aboveboard, but one of the others, perhaps—Frank, Gwen, Sally, or Tom, who had sworn their loyalty and devotion to the scheme, had they fouled up utterly? Was it treachery, or mere carelessness? Either seemed probable.

"Mr. Hodges," Sam mumbled, with his usual meekness, "whatever I've done, sir, ye' can be sure I meant no harm."

The man scoffed at him. "No harm? Helping the master's nephew filch a horse? And don't be claimin' the boy conned or coerced you. We know better. 'I lied, Georgie boy! Lied me arse off!'" Hodges mimicked. "Sound familiar, Cullen? Your real talents are best put to use on a stage than a livery."

Sam held his innocent expression as he inwardly cursed the lot of scuzzy rat spies sleeping soundly in the barracks. _The bastards!_

Upon reaching the transport, Hodges dispensed the standard notice to stay off the property, and then handed him a knapsack said to contain his wages and a day's provisions. "Best of luck to you, Cullen," he said with an air of honesty.

"But I've nowhere to go, sir," Sam pled gently, managing a few tears. "It was a mistake, is all, but just the one. Ain't I worked hard for ye', sir? with not a whinge or wail? Is a man not entitled to a second chance?"

Hodges shook his head. "No man's entitled to anything," was his cold reply before he and Angus turned and walked away, leaving Cullen in darkness, with no audience but the chirping insects and no companion but the driver, whose familiar bulbous nose as he drew closer sent through him a surge of renewed hope.

"Frank?" Sam whispered when he raised the brim of his hat to reveal the upper half of his ugly mug. "That you, mate?"

Frank gritted out, "You promised I'd be rich, Sam. Ain't right for a man to break his promise." The last statement was punctuated with a wink.

"No indeed, sir." Sam had to smile as he tossed his tow sack into the wagon; for it appeared Lady Luck was on his side once more.

* * *

George and Ben were in high spirits as they prepared for the day ahead with the welcome attendance of Mr. Darcy's valet, who was tasked with ensuring that they looked their best as the event commanded.

While Fleming worked in silence, George at one time declared that he should soon like to have his own manservant to tend to his every need, to which his cousin replied, "To have his own man, one must _be_ his own man," in his usual pontifical manner. This was given the usual eyeroll, but otherwise ignored.

With Fleming's exit and their wardrobe in place, the boys then began their walk to the breakfast-parlor for a light repast of scones and jam. This was a treat indeed; for though the mister and missus usually took supper with the children, mornings were generally reserved for themselves alone. The peculiarity of their attachment was not above George's notice as it was his cousins, who knew nothing else and therefore believed their union normal as the sunrise. George's old life in Hertfordshire highlighted the contrast, which thusly occupied his thoughts on occasion. Unlike the Longs and Lucases who regarded their respective partners with a mutual passivity and disinterest, the Darcys conversely appeared to take the greatest pleasure in each other's company. Quite often they were seen teasing and flirting, leaning in close, exchanging whispers or a simple glance, as if words were not needed, as if one's thoughts could be heard by the other. It was an act of wizardry, really—moreover a stirring contradiction to the stories on which George had been raised, that Aunt Lizzy had accepted her rich suitor more out of vexation and envy than the true love shared between his mother and Mr. Wickham. It was an account upheld till Mother's death, that she of five sisters was the luckiest in love while the others merely settled, either for missionary work or material gain.

_If this is so_, thought George, _why, then, is Aunt Lizzy always laughing_? And why, too, did Auntie Jane and Aunt Kitty smile so often, and with a genuineness his own mother, whose smile never reached her eyes, could not emulate? Why had a letter arrived so recently from India which espoused his aunt Mary's happiness in her own life and marriage to a…how had she phrased it? a 'most practical and highly esteemed ministerial laborer?'

Upon further contemplation, George determined grief over Mr. Wickham's death as the cause of Mother's pretense to a happiness not sincerely felt, and that her sisters simply grew to care for their husbands as they so evidently were cared for; for Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and even Dr. Fitzwilliam appeared never more content than—

Suddenly George's thoughts were interrupted with the loud whispering of two chambermaids in the hall. As he and Ben passed was heard the following:

"Did ye' hear 'bout Sam? Was sent packing before dawn, the poor devil!"

"Poor, sweet Sam," murmured the other.

George's humor sank at the hearing of such a rumor, and to his cousin's chagrin dared to approach the two maids he knew as Gwen and Sally to have them confirm it.

Once the brief exchange ended and George continued down the hall, Ben tore into him immediately, condemning his singular habit of chatting up servants as though they were equals. "Such a display of impropriety on both ends! I am very tempted to have them both dismissed."

"For _what_?"

"For engaging in gossip and for making themselves heard. Rules are in place for a reason."

George glared at him. "Only the worst of men would sack a servant for so little."

"And no gentleman would dispute it," Ben retorted. "Are you a gentleman, or are you not?"

"Of course he is a gentleman," cried Malcolm as he and Janie caught up with them. "Just like you and me!"

"You and _I_," Ben corrected.

"Are you and George quarreling again?" Janie inquired.

"No!" they both exclaimed.

"Then why," Janie pressed, "would you ask such a question, Ben?"

"Certain behaviors merit inspection," Ben answered simply and rather smugly.

"But not _your_ inspection," Jane argued.

"And not today, Brother," Malcolm added. "Today is special. Today we are only having fun, aren't we G—George? Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," George answered as he sprinted ahead, his principal objective to determine if, and then _why_ his friend had been sacked, even if it meant confronting the master himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Edit: Historical research suggests the Darcys' forthcoming event is more of a Venetian breakfast than a garden party, and so I've altered the verbiage accordingly. Thank you for reading!**

* * *

"Upon my word, little George," cried Elizabeth after spotting her flash of a nephew darting past the breakfast room at top speed. "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Her voice slowed the boy's vigorous pace to a stop. He turned to face her, catching his breath as she advanced from the archway, the distress in his countenance at once compelling her to scold her poor choice of words. "I had forgotten you no longer care for that endearment," she said contritely, "for you are all grown up now, aren't you?"

He nodded, though his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

Elizabeth touched his shoulder. "Is something the matter, George? Are you unwell?"

He looked at her, still panting. He began to speak, but then faltered, as if he could not quite collect his thoughts to fully articulate what was on his evidently troubled mind. After a few failed attempts, Elizabeth asked warily, "Is it to do with Ben? Had you another quarrel?"

He shook his head emphatically. "No, ma'am. I was…going out."

"Out?" Comprehension dawned, and she raised an eyebrow. "To the stables?"

"Not to ride," the boy was quick to explain, adding ruefully, "I was—I was coming right back."

Elizabeth tried to be understanding as she gently admonished, "George, you know perfectly well you are to seek permission beforehand…"

"Yes, ma'am; sorry, ma'am. May I please go out, Aunt? I'll not be long, I promise."

"Later, perhaps," she answered kindly but firmly. "Now come along with me, please. Your uncle is waiting."

She then directed him into the breakfast-parlor, where Mr. Darcy sat with coffee cup in hand and eyes on his paper.

On George's entrance he glanced up and smiled invitingly. "Good morning, Nephew. You are looking very smart. I see Fleming did a bang-up job."

The boy looked at him for some moments before acknowledging the compliment in a rather weak and somber tone. Darcy studied him curiously. "Are the others on their way down?"

"Yes, sir."

The words came out stiff and overly formal. "Something else to say, George?" Darcy then asked, his brow creased and mien severe.

An awkward silence ensued before Elizabeth finally bent to George's ear and whispered, "You should thank your uncle, George—for the party. It would mean a great deal to him."

The boy glanced up at her, then back at his uncle; but before another word could be uttered came there a commotion of voices and footsteps as the Darcy children strolled into the room together.

"Scones and jam!" cried Malcolm immediately, hardly able to contain his excitement over the sight and smell of the fresh pastries upon the sideboard. "Strawberries! Marmalade! Thank you, thank you, Papa!"

Darcy chuckled as his youngest then ran into his open arms and kissed his cheek, and Elizabeth smiled as she always did at their little Malcolm's sweetness and affection.

It was then Janie's turn, and she smilingly bade her parents good morning, complemented with a low curtsey and a dimpled smile. "Do you like my gown, Papa?" she asked cheerily, giving a twirl.

"Beautiful as always, my angel," William praised before shifting attention to his eldest. "Good morning, Son."

"Good morning, Papa," greeted Ben with a reverent bow. He clasped his hands behind him, and then made the ostensibly rehearsed proclamation: "I wish to express again my apologies for yesterday's incident. Your benevolence is most appreciated."

"You are very welcome, Mr. Darcy," William replied, and then fixed his dark eyes again on George, whose faint frown and blank stare could not be made out.

"George?" said Elizabeth from just behind him, rubbing his arm encouragingly.

More uncomfortable silence followed until Ben's elbow to George's ribs finally jolted the boy from his reverie. He looked at his uncle, forced a smile, and said tightly, "Thank you, Uncle Darcy."

* * *

Later that morning, George sat at his usual place upon the top railing of the deer's bespoke enclosure situated about twenty yards from the stables. Every so often he looked off in that direction, as if good ol' Sam would be along any moment for one of their chats, but on this day he did not come; nor would he ever again, it seemed.

But no matter how much George wanted to, he adamantly refused to cry. Only little children cried, and he was not little. He was a Wickham, sturdy and stout, just like his father had been, and he would not "wail and moan" (as Ben had sang) over a servant's dismissal. Instead, he busied himself with a long, thin branch, scratching and digging into the dirt.

Denied admission to the stables and granted but an hour to himself before he was to report back home to greet the imminent swarm of cousins, George reckoned only a quarter of that hour had passed before a presence was felt behind him. Expectantly he turned, but then frowned when he saw only Janie approaching.

"What are you doing here?" he asked curtly as she reached the fence.

"I've come to visit Aries."

"Enter over there then." He jerked his head towards the latched gate.

To his vexation, Janie instead lifted a slippered foot to the bottom rail and began hoisting herself up.

"Silly girl!" George exclaimed. "You will ruin your party clothes."

"Will not; I've climbed this fence a hundred times," she reasoned, and within moments was perched at his side.

As she was a bit close for his comfort, George shifted a few inches away from her. "What are you waiting for? Go over and give him a cuddle."

"That _would_ dirty my gown, silly boy. Besides, I rather enjoy simply watching him graze. Isn't he the loveliest thing?"

"Not really." George pointed out to the open meadow in the distance, where a lone white stallion romped spiritedly amid the wildflowers. "Perseus is far superior to any deer—or any horse, for that matter. I intend to ride him someday."

"But he's too wild," said she. "You would be thrown to the ground."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"And in any case, Papa would forbid you to even try. Only he and Aunt Georgie have _that_ horse's respect and trust."

George scowled but said nothing, his attention remaining fixed to his branch as he poked at the ground with increasing aggression.

"Why do you come out here all alone?" asked Janie.

"Why do you care?"

"I was only curious. You needn't be so cross."

"Sorry. I like to be alone sometimes."

"Oh. I'll go away if you wish. You were here first."

George shrugged. "Well, you're here _now_, so…sit where you like, it makes no difference to me."

"Very well then." She smiled, and after awhile began humming a tune, swinging her legs to-and-fro while George continued his pointless preoccupation. _Surely she will grow bored soon_, he thought, though he knew not whether he would prefer her to leave or not, only that he felt as he usually did around pretty girls: nervous and awkward.

After a long silence, Janie said, "Thank you for defending me yesterday. Ben can be so insufferable!"

"Yes." George ground his branch even harder. "And haughty. And _proud_."

"And loud," she added with a giggle.

"And _shrill_," George subjoined. "His voice carried all the way to the conservatory. He should leave the singing to Malcolm."

"What were you doing at the conservatory?"

"Running one last errand for Hodges. The carrots are nice and ripe there."

"Oh." She thought for a moment. "Did you never complete the errand then?"

George smirked at her. "There was a fight, remember?"

"Well, let's complete it now, shall we?" The girl then leapt down from the railing.

"Why bother? Surely someone else saw to it."

"But you don't know that, do you?" She tugged on his sleeve. "Come on, George. Take a walk with me. We have plenty of time, and won't Hodges be impressed with your diligence? Better late than never!"

With a little more prodding, George gave in and sprang down, leaving behind the now mangled branch. The pair began their stroll through the park in the cool, crisp morning, for the most part ignored by the many servants immersed in their own respective occupations, which included the pitching of tents and setting up of tables and chairs for the breakfast. Only a single groom, Frank, had paid keen and covert attention to young Mr. Wickham's every move and glance, accurately predicting the boy's imminent return to the stables, and thus placing himself at the most opportune site.

As they walked on together, Janie endeavored at conversation, but her attempts fell short as George's nerves and ill humor precluded a response of more than two or three words. She began to look discouraged, which added guilt to the litany of feelings that weighed upon him. Disquiet stirred as the rising boil of a tea kettle until finally, to save from bursting, George suddenly asked: "Have you ever hated anyone?"

She seemed taken aback by the question, which was given a good deal of thought before she answered, "I don't think so. I dislike Ben sometimes, but certainly do not _hate_ him. That feeling should be reserved not for vexing elder brothers, I believe, but for only the nastiest of characters—tyrants like Napoleon, or sadistic madmen like Ivan the Terrible. Mamma calls unconstrained hatred a sickness, that it corrodes your insides like poison, and that it may even lead to blindness if untreated or uncured." Searching his expression, she asked, "I thought you and Ben made up."

"I wasn't talking of Ben."

"Oh. Who then?"

"No one; I was just asking," he lied. "What about…do you think it's possible to love someone, and then hate them?"

In its amendment was the question better understood, as Janie was quicker and more eager to answer, "Oh! Like a betrayal! Like Medea, or Julius Caesar, or Cain and Abel!"

"Sort of, I suppose. Perhaps not _that_ severe, but…"

"Oh, it must be that severe, Cousin. Don't you remember Dante?"

"Um…"

"Inferno! The ninth ring! The deepest, darkest circle of hell! That is where the treacherous are cast for eternity—or, as Miss Baxter says, the furthest removed from God's light and warmth as they denied His love." With much vigor, Janie acted out her narration—"and so they are forever trapped in a lake of ice, exposed to the bitter cold, to the ravaging winds; and at the very center resides the three faces of Lucifer himself, who gnaws upon the flesh of Cassius and Brutus, shredding Judas to pieces with his claws as he—"

"Have done already!" cried George, his eyes wide with horror at the vividness of her description. "Blimey! That is a penance I have earnestly never wished upon anyone."

"Good! Then you have perchance never hated anyone, either."

"Perhaps not. I suppose that answers my question then. Thank you."

"You're welcome!" She smiled brightly, and ran ahead of him into the conservatory, George quickening his own pace to catch up.

His mood improved significantly as the two of them filled a pail with fresh carrots, each applying thought and care to their selections. Afterwards, they made their way back to the livery, cutting through the lawn at a brisk pace, gripping the handle from opposite sides, talking of the party and other lighter subjects until finally reaching the largest of the great barns where feed and supplies were stored.

"I'll take it in," said George. "You had better go. We are expected back soon, and I am not supposed to be here at all. Better I get into trouble than you."

"You'll not be in trouble. Just report to Hodges, give him the carrots, and then leave." She wiped her beaded brow. "Oh dear, I must freshen up. Hurry back, George!" And then she dashed away.

George checked his own appearance, and counted himself lucky that he still looked presentable. He took hold of the pail, and as he entered through the barn's massive entrance heard a friendly voice.

"Why hello there, Mr. Wickham," a man said as he emerged from the shadows, a crooked smile spread across his pock-marked face and a load of horse tack flung over his shoulder. "What brings ye' here, this morning? Thought you was all done slavin' for Hodges."

George was startled at first, but eased quickly. "Hello, Frank. I am not working, I just…these carrots were to be delivered yesterday, but…"

"But somethin' came up? bit of a square-go in the maze?" Frank raised his fists and threw playful jabs at the air.

George colored. "You know about that?"

"'Course I know," he chuckled. "S'all over the yard you drew Master Ben's cork!"

"He drew _mine_, actually. Gave him a good one in his eye, though."

"Really? You seem alright. How's about that shiner?"

"Somewhat healed, but not completely."

"Suppose that makes you the victor then." He smiled and winked. "Ol' Sam surely would have been proud."

"So it's true then, Frank? about Sam? He's really…"

"'Fraid so, Mr. Wickham. Had to remove him from the place me-self. It weren't a pretty scene. Poor bloke was fast asleep when it happened. Never saw it coming, but when it came..." Frank blew out a breath, visibly cringing at the memory. "Don't think they broke anything, but he got it pretty good. Might have a black eye himself."

"But _why, _Frank?"

Frank shrugged. "Not sure, really. We're never told, and we never know who's next—but we're used to that sort of thing. Some get it worse than others."

George stared with surprise and confusion. "What—beatings? By my uncle's command?"

"Well…it would have to be, wouldn't it? I've only known Hodges to carry out the master's orders to the letter. They say he was smacked around for years workin' his way up the ranks. Now he's taken over that duty." In a hushed tone, he added, "You ain't heard that from me, though."

"How awful! Why did Sam never talk of my uncle's cruelty?"

"No point, was there? Like I said, we's used to it."

"Where is he now, Frank? Where is Sam?"

With a sly grin, the man whispered, "Not as far as ye' might think."

George winced. "What do you mean?"

"Frank!" barked Hodges as he stormed into the barn. "You get away from that boy! What did I tell you lot, this morning?"

"We weren't havin' a chat, Mr. Hodges," Frank explained. "Mr. Wickham was only—"

"I only asked him where to find you, Mr. Hodges," said George, running up to the man, loaded pail in his grasp—"so I could bring you these carrots. You sent me for them yesterday, remember?"

Hodges was still glaring at Frank while the boy, standing before him with his freshly-picked supply, spoke to him with respect and humility. Afterwards, Hodges replied, in a kinder tone, "That chore was tended to, Mr. Wickham. You needn't have bothered, but thanks all the same. I'll see that it gets to the kitchen staff. Best be running along now, sir."

"Is Frank in trouble now?" George asked fretfully. "Because of me? Is that why Sam was sacked, too?"

Hodges shook his head. "I'm not at liberty, sir. You really should not be here."

"Why not?"

"My staff is forbidden to speak to you, Mr. Wickham, as Mr. Frank here good and well knows."

"Forbidden! Since when?"

"I really can say no more, sir. Thought the master might have informed you by now, but I can only refer you to him. Now please run along."

George refused, sniffing back the tears that threatened to spill.

Hodges looked down at him, expression softening to one of sympathy as he exclaimed, "Look at you! All dressed up for a party, and carryin' around a tin pail like you was commoner than cabbage. A smelly ol' barn is no place for such a dapper young man. You'll be ridin' again soon—that I can tell you. But this…" (he motioned towards the boy) "this ain't right. It's with other gentlemen you belong, Mr. Wickham—not the likes of us."

"But I like the barn!" George cried. "I like the stables! And I like Sam!" At the final exclamation, his tears went unchecked.

"I know you did, Mr. Wickham, but…" Hodges went silent.

"But what?"

"It ain't for me to say. Listen, I'll let Frank off with a warnin', seein' as how _you_ didn't know the new rule." He snapped at Frank, "Back to work, you," then to George, softly, "I would ask that you trust your uncle's judgment, Mr. Wickham. He means well. But you really must leave at once, sir. You've done excellent work for me, but it's all over now. Understand?" (no answer) "Have a jolly good time today. You've earned it."

* * *

By two o'clock in the afternoon the breakfast was in full swing, the front park packed with dozens of happy guests enjoying the perfect weather. The sun shone behind wispy clouds as the cream of Derbyshire mingled in the shade beneath the tents, or strolled along the garden paths or through the maze, or ate marzipan and other confections at one of the many tables adorned with a center piece of fresh flowers. As the Darcys so rarely entertained, nearly every invitation was accepted with much anticipation and enthusiasm, including and especially their closest relations, most of whom resided but a short distance away. Mr. Darcy's sister, in fact, lived right on the grounds just a mile or so from the great house; for even after marrying could Georgiana, now Lady Russell, not bear to part from her family home. With the blessing of her doting husband was a fine, stately manor therefore built atop the property's highest peak, where the Russells resided ten months out of the year. Named Summerhill, it was a truly modern, magnificent, albeit smaller abode easily viewed from the Darcys' own balconies, and quite often would Mr. and Mrs. Darcy give a wave to their very close neighbors whenever they lounged together in the morning or evening hours, even though the chance that they were actually seen at that moment was remote. But neither of them cared, so happy they were to be within proximity to the people they loved so well.

As the guests were received, the Darcys welcomed Georgiana and her husband John with fervor; for they had just returned from an extensive journey abroad. The two of them still looked exhausted from all the traveling, as Darcy happened to mention in a rare, private moment with his sister.

"Indeed we are both rather tired," Georgiana confirmed, and Darcy was further moved to contrition by her weary countenance.

"We'll not be offended, dearest, if you should like to go home and rest."

"Oh, no!" she was quick to rejoin, "John and I wanted to come. The weather is too perfect, and the diversion is needed, I assure you."

"Were Paris and Rome not diverting enough for you?" Darcy teased.

She smiled faintly. "There was as much work involved as pleasure, though I did visit some very lovely shops. Oh, stop looking at me that way, William. I am perfectly well. John is well. The children are well. We are all well."

"So you were not on holiday? That is what Lizzy and I had assumed, but it is none of our affair, of course."

"Do not sulk, Brother. It _was_ a holiday of sorts, but not entirely."

He raised a hand. "Say no more; You are a grown woman, a wife, a mother, and you answer to me no longer." He again studied her. "But you do look very fatigued, my dear."

"William!"

"I've an idea. Why don't you and John take a week all to yourselves—or for as long as you require. It is what Lizzy and I do whenever one or both of us become excessively immersed in occupations and commitments."

"The notion is tempting, but…"

"But nothing at all, sweetheart. We will look after James and Ruby. There is plenty of room in the nursery now that Ben and George are sharing an apartment." He looked off to where five-year-old Ruby and seven-year-old James were cavorting in the park with the rest of their cousins of similar ages. "And you know how much Janie and Malcolm enjoy their company."

"I promise to consider your offer if you stop worrying," she answered with mild frustration. "Surely_ you_ are the one in need of respite, Brother. You are always fussing over everyone else. Were it not for Lizzy, I should—oh, look! There's Richard and Matthew, begging for your company. Clearly you have neglected them."

On her nod, Darcy spotted the brothers Fitzwilliam conversing amidst a small party of gentlemen.

"Neglected, eh? They are not even looking in my direction," Darcy observed. "You are only changing the subject."

"Indeed I am." With a frenetic wave of her hand, Georgiana caught their cousins' attention. The brothers smiled in greeting, and then motioned for Darcy to join them. "_Now_ they are begging your company," Georgie teased, "and so you must oblige them as a proper host."

With a smile, Darcy raised his beverage in acknowledgement of their request, indicating that he would be over directly. Richard and Matthew returned the gesture – the latter a respected physician, the former now Earl of Matlock – and in that moment felt Darcy a surge of wonder at life's twists and turns; for as he was miraculously gifted a second chance with Elizabeth after a horribly botched proposal, so had Providence seen fit to award a mere militia colonel his noble rank in their first summer as man and wife. The first-born's sudden, violent illness had claimed the barren viscount in a matter of weeks, leaving second-born Richard in line to succeed the father who remained in excellent health for several more years. At a ripe old age had he recently succumbed, passing away peacefully and mercifully, in peaceful slumber, without misery, without pain.

Moreover, the ineffective, archaic methods practiced on Stephen by supposed specialists had driven young Matthew to discard years of academic study at Cambridge for the obsessive pursuit of medical innovation. When he had once considered himself a master of theory, a potential reader or lecturer, perhaps even a professor in due course, now Matty was working alongside the most renowned physicians in the country, having already saved countless lives, and performing the sort of work that should set the course for the future of mankind as he endlessly sought improvements in the field of medicine.

The brothers went back to their conversation, and then Darcy turned to Georgiana to further inquire about her own health.

With a roll of her eyes Georgie smiled, kissed his cheek, and then went away to join the Fitzwilliam wives – Lady Marina, Kitty, and the dowager Lady Alexandra – at their table.

Darcy scrutinized his sister a bit longer before detecting the faint scent of lavender in the air, and then feeling Elizabeth's presence draw near. With eyes still on Georgiana was his wife then welcomed into a one-armed embrace, her dainty hand resting on his back as he held her by the waist. He bent slightly as she raised on her tiptoes to whisper softly into his ear:

"Dearest, I think something may be very wrong with little George."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

* * *

Darcy chuckled at his wife's little jest.

"I am serious, William."

Her tone moved him to meet the assertion's corresponding expression. Indeed she was in earnest. Darcy's brow knit in consternation. "What has he done now?"

"I have no incidents to report, Mr. Darcy, merely my growing concern for our nephew's discernible melancholy."

"Please, Elizabeth…"

"Must you be so strict, my dear?"

"This has been discussed—"

"I know, but—"

"—and you agreed the current state of affairs could no longer be tolerated, that lines were egregiously crossed to the potential corruption of a most vulnerable youth. I have borne my share of blame and hate seeing him unhappy as much as you, but this is for his own good. Have strength, my dear."

"I am trying, but I think this may run deeper than the mere imposing of rules and restrictions. Have you not yet talked the matter over with George?"

"Which matter?"

"Sam Cullen, of course."

"He knows about that already?"

"You know word spreads faster than fire, William. Surely you did not think he would remain ignorant for long."

"Longer than a heartbeat, for God's sake! Besides, I have been far too busy with the party."

"Fair enough. But, afterwards, you do intend to settle this business between you, do you not?"

Darcy sighed deeply, taking a moment's deliberation before replying, "The business _is_ settled, Mrs. Darcy. Frankly, I see not the sense in discussing it with an eleven-year-old."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy," said she, with faltering patience, "but did you not, just yesterday, spend a quarter of an hour _discussing_ with our nine-year-old daughter the order of things as it pertains to the natural world, and to her Aries in particular?"

"And then what happened?" he asked sharply. "I capitulated. Crumbled."

"You commiserated, as would have many a loving father."

"Or as many a _fool_ bested by his own bleeding heart, when the matter should _never_ have been open to opposition. I mishandled the situation entirely, and am mortified on behalf of my predecessors; for it is certain no master before me ever begged his children's approval out of concern for their precious feelings."

"I happen to adore your _bleeding heart_, Fitzwilliam Darcy. It is what I fell in love with, and till my dying breath shall I resist your stubborn endeavors to suppress it."

At her impassioned plea he smiled, raising her hand to his lips. "Fear not, my dear. I've no intention of rescinding my promise to Janie. A father may afford his little girl a bit of soft-hearted submission, but sons are a different matter altogether."

"Not this again, please. The sexes are not _so_ dissimilar, my love, as to render us completely insensible to individual character and conditions. Our nephew is, in fact, and despite every _boyish_ attribute, far more delicate than our Janie; than Ben or Malcolm, for that matter. Some children—not nearly enough—are blessed with the exceedingly good fortune of being fostered upon the sturdiest of foundations, and as such are better equipped to cope with extreme disappointment. How ironic, that _we_ as the providers, as the bearers of wealth, wisdom and worldliness, are somehow _less_ equipped to bear their suffering! but I digress, my dear. Our methods, it would seem, are not fully measuring up to our intentions. You may think, with your latest decrees and Cullen's dismissal, that the problem essentially worked itself out, but it is simply not so; and one look at George would confirm it."

Darcy listened intently, by nature desiring to disagree, to counter her view with a brilliant, irrefutable argument, but ultimately finding he could not. On her urging, he looked to where the children danced merrily around the maypole, all smiles and laughter. Even the usually stoic Ben was in good cheer, likely due to the blushing blonde presence of his current infatuation, Dorothea Bingley. George, however, despite his concerted efforts to match their amusement, looked as if he carried the world's weight on his shoulders.

"How utterly bizarre," said William, "that a servant should mean so much to him."

Elizabeth cut him an arch glance. "Which reminds me, Mr. Darcy, of the correspondence just received from McKenna's Florist in Nottingham. Shall I continue or suspend the usual deliveries to Mrs. Reynolds's gravesite?"

Darcy stared, colored, and then broke into laughter as he squeezed his vexing wife closer against him. "Continue, my love." A heavy pause. "I will speak with George."

"Wonderful! When?"

"Soon. I've too much on my plate at the moment—as do you, Mrs. Darcy. Let us not disturb the boy further on this occasion. Give him a chance to enjoy the day. Look, there. Janie is bound and determined to brighten his mood. I've little doubt she will succeed. And then tonight we'll have it out, George and I, openly and honestly.

"But delicately, my dear."

"Delicately," he concurred. "In time, this Cullen shall be a memory best forgotten."

Lizzy breathed a sigh. "The truth shall break his heart, I fear."

"But he will bear up," said Darcy, pressing his lips to her temple. "As must we all."

A short time later came Mrs. Bingley to very politely steal her sister away, leaving Darcy free to join Richard and Matthew, the latter saying immediately upon his arrival: "Take a look at Frederick."

Darcy followed his cousins' befuddled gaze to the gentleman's shaded location some fifty feet away, his young wife attached to his arm, the couple beaming as they mingled beneath the tent from one table to another, greeting each and every couple with atypical enthusiasm. "Not since his campaign have I seen him hold a smile for that long," said Richard. "What do you know, Darcy?"

"About what?"

"About the Blackwells! I had heard their household is in disarray and their marriage in shambles, and yet to look at them—"

"From whom did you hear this?" asked Darcy.

"My wife," answered Richard.

"And where did _she_ hear it?"

"My wife," whispered Matty.

Darcy rolled his eyes and exclaimed, "What in blazes have I walked into—a sewing circle? Had I known this was the manner in which Lords and doctors employed their free time, I might have spared myself the annoyance."

Richard waved off his reply. "Give over, Darce. Do not pretend you and Lizzy are not _au fait_ with the rumors as everyone else."

"Even if we were, we should be damned to dignify it. Oh, dear God!" Darcy groaned. "Please tell me this is _not_ the prevailing topic on everyone's lips, and that my party is not an ever-rotating rumor mill."

The brothers exchanged guilty looks before Matthew answered, "We've not contributed, Cousin."

"Just kept our ears open," added Richard. "But, Darcy, you must give us some allowance; for not in our lifetime has a whiff of scandal ever befallen the Blackwells. This is a truly momentous event."

"How can I argue with such sound reasoning?" Darcy quipped.

"Evidently," Richard stressed, "you have overlooked how insufferable Frederick could be in our youth. With _him_ was the only scrap I ever got into on horseback, remember? Over a thrown shoe of all things!"

Darcy chuckled. "He maintains you cheated in that race."

"He can get stuffed! I won bloody fair and square."

"Over twenty years ago, Richard, and a rather trivial example in retrospect."

"He threw me into a lake when I was ten," Matthew bitterly interjected, "just for catching the bigger fish."

"You did gloat insufferably," his brother reasoned.

"I nearly drowned! He was eighteen, for the love of—"

"I should be the first to agree he is not perfect," chimed Darcy. "We've all our share of Frederick encounters, but that hardly merits the sort of speculation and begrudgery most common of a clutch of old hens. Is it not beneath us? Are we not gentlemen?"

"Are we not sanctimonious?" Richard mocked. "Set aside your exemplary virtue, Will—just for a moment. Can you honestly deny these reports have educed a touch of satisfaction?"

"Or perhaps some conviction," Matthew inserted, "in the Buddhist dogmas of cause and effect known as _karma_?"

"Not a whit," Darcy replied, careful to reveal nothing of what he knew. Wittingly he laid more guilt upon the brothers, saying, "From where I stand, we are in no position to scrutinize, and _all_ in a position fairly equal to if not above Sir Frederick's current status. In any case, it would appear the rumors are unfounded; for he and Priscilla, as you see, look as a pair of love birds."

The two siblings contended that looks could be deceiving before finally moving on to less distasteful subjects. Another hour passed as Darcy played his well-refined role has host, though the frequently overheard whispers about the Blackwells served to validate his general dislike of these events. But none of the gossip had reached the couple's ears, apparently, as their adoring glances and joyous expressions never faltered.

At around four o'clock Darcy reunited with Elizabeth, each exhausted from entertaining, but also pleased with themselves at the ostensible harmony restored in the Blackwells' marriage. By that virtue was it reckoned the gossip should dry up in due course. But for yesterday's incident at Kingston, everything seemed to be going according to plan, with no one – not even Priscilla – wise to the Darcys' minimal involvement.

Next came the supper course. While the children dined beneath their very own tent under the supervision of three nannies and Miss Baxter, the Darcys took repast at a fully populated table, the Blackwells adjacent, and halfway through the meal were taken aback when Frederick suddenly rose from his seat, tapping fork to glass, commanding the whole party's attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said he, in his statesman's voice, "if I may beg your indulgence, I wish to make an announcement."

The crowd quieted, and all eyes were on the accomplished speaker now clearing his throat, patiently waiting on each and every man and woman to swallow their last bite of food ere proceeding.

Darcy and Elizabeth glanced at one another, the former perturbed by the impertinence of this _announcement_ for which he had not been pre-apprised, the latter taking private amusement from it; for such was Frederick's standard self-consequence, that he would make a speech at someone else's soiree without clearance, his own interests countermanding the dictates of decorum.

While simmering in silence, Darcy felt Elizabeth's hand touch his leg, squeezing gently. He looked at her, captivated as usual by her aspect, her upturned mouth, her eyes dancing with good humor, elevating his own as Frederick made his first proclamation:

"Before I begin, let us raise our glasses to the stellar hospitality of our marvelous host and hostess, whose enchanting estate remains the envy of Derbyshire."

The crowd happily complied with a smattering of _here, here! _over the blushing couple's silent expressions of appreciation. Frederick continued:

"Well, with that out of the way, I've most excellent news to share with all of you. Forgive my aversion to your inquiries, forgive the ridiculous smile on my face, and, Darcy, do pardon my neglecting to brief you beforehand. I merely wanted this to be a surprise to _everyone_."

Darcy gave an obliging nod, internalizing his anticipation as he felt the stiffening of Lizzy's grip on his upper thigh.

Frederick looked down at his wife, and, taking her hand, gently said, "Stand up, darling."

She obeyed shyly, meeting his expression with similar warmth and elation.

With eyes back on the crowd, Frederick wrapped a strong arm about his wife's diminutive frame upon exclaiming, "My dear Priscilla is with child! Kingston will have a new heir six months hence! The Blackwell line endures!"

The reaction was a comingling of thrilled gasps and murmurs, followed by a round of congratulatory applause for the happy couple. The Darcys were quick to join in the celebration, the hopeful pair suppressing a slight but shared feeling of uneasiness as Frederick lay a loving kiss to Priscilla's dimpled cheek.

* * *

"Isn't it wonderful, Lizzy?" cried Jane upon Elizabeth's arrival at her table at supper's conclusion. Servants abounded and plates were cleared as a plethora of guests resumed their intermingling (and the further trading of idle gossip, no doubt).

Jane took hold of Elizabeth's hands, her eyes tearful and smile incandescent. "How they have yearned for a child, and finally shall their prayers be answered! Won't Priscilla be the finest mother! And just look at Sir Frederick! Never have I seen him so happy." She quickly stood. "Excuse me, please, Sister. I must go over and wish them joy!" And she dashed away, freeing a chair for Elizabeth to occupy until her sister's return. She and Mr. Bingley exchanged knowing smiles, the latter enduringly charmed by his beautiful wife's inexhaustible care for others.

"Well, Charles," said Elizabeth, "it would appear your wife is thrilled enough for the both of you."

"I shall save my energy then," Charles replied, "and trust that my dear Jane's blessings will be sufficient. Little Alfred has been sharing our bed of late, and he is a relentless kicker. I am lucky to get a good five hours on most nights."

Elizabeth smiled, privately marveling at her ever agreeable brother-in-law; for even his complaints were merrily expressed. "Speaking of slumber," said she, humorful gaze shifting to their table mate, "it would seem poor John could use a good night's rest himself."

On hearing his name, John opened his heavy eyelids, abruptly lifting his head from the pillow that was his right palm. "Oh, God! Forgive me," cried he with some embarrassment, and then looked all around. "Where—where is my wife?"

Elizabeth nodded towards the children's tent. "She went to check on James and Ruby. Thank you again for lending your nanny, John. Miss Baxter is most grateful for the added reinforcement."

"Think nothing of it, Sister," said he, fighting a deep yawn.

Charles laughed heartily, clapping the man on the back. "How family depletes us so! Eh, John?"

"Indeed," John muttered, rubbing his tired eyes.

"And yet I would not trade a single moment spent with them, with all of you," Charles generously asserted. "Not for the world."

"Nor would I, Brother," Elizabeth readily concurred.

"Lizzy, I beg you express to Mr. Darcy my sincerest apologies," said John, his worried eyes finding William's unoccupied chair, and then the man himself at Frederick Blackwell's side as the two men conversed. "No! I shall do so myself." He began to stand, but then was beseeched to sit back down.

Said Elizabeth, "You needn't bother, John. My husband understands fully, takes no offense, and in fact expressed some concern for you and Georgie."

"Travel fatigue," replied John with a nervous laugh. Charles commiserated with him over this relatable condition, and then the two men talked more of the continent, Elizabeth erelong excusing herself to check in with her most capable governess.

On arrival, Miss Baxter gave a positive report on her ample assembly of youngsters, all exceeding infancy but most younger than ten, leaving Janie and Malcolm with a far greater share of playmates to Ben and George, who preferred the society of those nearer to adolescence. As per usual, Ben stayed close to Dorothea Bingley's side, perpetually tongue-tied around the girl four months his junior and, in his own words, "pretty as roses," though he never dared to admit feelings beyond familial affection, no matter how much teasing he endured.

But Ben's charming susceptibility to Miss Dorothea was of little concern to his mother at the moment. Eyes searching for George, Elizabeth eventually found her object situated among the lot, his piece of cake barely touched, a more studious contrast to the smiles that surrounded him, calling to mind a latter-day assembly in which she had made the acquaintance of a reserved and reticent gentleman who'd spent the whole evening staring and brooding, inviting scrutiny and misapprehension, including her own. But unlike Mr. Darcy, remembered as dripping with the pride of his distinction, George seemed burdened by it, half of him relishing the company of his more privileged contemporaries while the other half ached with yearning. Endlessly he observed them, entranced, taking an active interest in their comportment, their conversations and manner of speaking, then falling mute on the occasional reference to that which he could not relate as an orphaned boy raised on a modest country manor in a nondescript neighborhood full of unimportant people, certainly not the descendants of Lords and Ladies, of lines dating back centuries, and the sprawling estates to show for it.

Next to George sat Janie, whose playfulness often broke his concentration on the others. Frequently she addressed him, teasing him like a sister, as wholly indifferent as Malcolm to what set him apart from everyone else; and though her every attempt at humor drew a smile, there was something behind George's expression found most disheartening, a distinctive sadness Elizabeth knew not how to remedy.

Her ceaseless observation (and apparent distress) thusly evoked Miss Baxter's own take on the matter: "Children, I find, are far more resilient than we give them credit for, with very few exceptions."

"Might our Mr. Wickham be one of those exceptions, Miss Baxter?"

"Not in my estimation, ma'am. I think him a very sturdy lad, indeed."

"Do you?" Elizabeth was genuinely surprised; for she had always viewed George as rather fragile, thin-skinned, fearful of the dark and unpleasantness in general.

Miss Baxter nodded. "A few more years of study and cultivation, and he should make a fine addition to our Royal Navy."

"About that, Miss Baxter," replied Elizabeth. "While the adjustment of your curriculum has admittedly improved our nephew's attitude and performance, Mr. Darcy contends that maritime history and navy lists are insufficient preparation for Eton, and that George's interest in the sea is likely another passing fancy, if not a pretext to evade the responsibilities that await him on shore. A long period of reflection finds me torn over the matter. While I care deeply about the boy's happiness, our all-too-frequent indulgence in these whims might very well do him more ill than good in the end. On that head, we ask that the former lesson plan be reimplemented, and that more scholarly pursuits be encouraged henceforward. George has years, if his passion sustains, to answer the call of adventure; but Eton is just around the corner, you see."

"Yes of course, Mrs. Darcy," returned she with a respectful curtsey, though her voice revealed an air of trepidation.

This time, Elizabeth chose to ignore the inflection and not pursue Miss Baxter's opinion, privately declaring her decision on the matter final, no matter how much it pained her to deny any of her children the things that brought a smile to their little faces, that served, in George's case, to mend the wound inflicted by his mother's death. But, alas! more important than a child's pleasure was his protection, and the Darcys' obligation to see their nephew not merely gratified, but well disciplined, well educated, and well able to manage his birthright in the coming years.

As William had said, George _shall_ bear up, and not because he wills it, but because he must.

* * *

George was quick to straighten his carriage upon noticing the near perfect posture of his tablemates, privately condemning his propensity to slouch, especially when conversation took a turn for the insipid. They were talking of music, particularly of the various instruments in which they were obliged to spend hours each day under the tutelage of unduly demanding instructors. To George's ears did these lessons sound rather like hell on earth than a necessary means of refinement; and yet he perceived on their end no feelings of resentment, but rather a mixture of understanding, resignation, and even pride in what they had accomplished thus far.

Noting his silence, the younger Bingley sister then asked George what instrument he played, to which he merely shrugged, somehow believing this response would satisfy the girl now staring at him in perplexity.

"I like horses," he answered timidly when the girl voiced her confusion.

"We all like horses," said the elder Dorothea, almost certainly the prettiest girl at the table, or whom he had ever laid eyes upon, "but we enjoy music just as well. Can you not take pleasure in both?"

He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly strangled by his cravat, which he loosened slightly as he replied, avoiding her blue-eyed gaze, "I have tried to; but music, I find, does not hold my interest."

With a snicker, Janie cut in, "Our playing holds no charm for him at all. Why it is all he can do to stay awake most evenings! Is that not so, Malcolm?"

Intuiting George's discomfort, the eight-year-old replied, "I don't mind, really. Music is not for everyone, and not everyone plays. _I_ do not play."

"Your voice is your instrument," Ben retorted, "to which you have devoted a good deal of discipline, and so it counts."

Dorothea agreed, which flattered Ben immensely, and to the Darcy siblings was then made the following suggestion: "You might try altering your playlist," said Dorothea, "to something better suited to a boy like him, perhaps merrier folk tunes over the serious works of Bach or Handel."

Despite the sweetness of her address, George blushed crimson at the allusion to his lack of sophistication. He forced down a bite of cake, suppressing his mortification as best he could while the subject endured, resolving to wait out this portion of the party with no further contribution.

Minutes later came a team of footmen to clear away the children's plates, one in particular bending to George's ear and whispering: "Mr. Wickham, would you come along with me, sir? The master desires a word with you."

"Me? Why?" said George, instantly presuming the worst. _What have I done now?_

In response, the footman merely repeated the request, purporting to no nothing beyond the order he was given.

George rose from the table, taking care to formally excuse himself, and followed the smartly dressed servant down the table, past more cousins and other children several times his consequence, likely judging him, whispering behind his back while feigning politeness to his face.

"Tom!" cried Miss Baxter on spotting her pupil being led away from the tent. The footman halted and faced the approaching woman. "Just where are you taking Mr. Wickham, pray?"

"To the drawing-room, ma'am," replied the footman. "by the master's direct order."

"The children are under _my_ supervision," the governess scolded, "and as such I am to be notified, as you know, before you simply make off with one of my charges."

"Indeed, Miss Baxter," Tom respectfully returned. "Forgive the error, please. It will not happen again, I assure you."

Miss Baxter looked off in the distance, and then said, "Mr. Darcy is clearly occupied with the other guests. Seems strange that he should desire a private meeting with his nephew at this time."

"I cannot account for that, ma'am. I merely was tasked to escort Mr. Wickham, and to remain with him till the master's arrival. I know nothing else."

"Very well then. Go along, Mr. Wickham."

The footman resumed his steady pace with George in tow, the governess watching as they cut through the courtyard to a subsidiary entrance used mainly by servants. Once inside, Tom led George down a vast hall to a dark empty chamber, whereupon he whipped around and whispered, "I've a message from Cullen."

At this, George's face overspread with joy. "Sam!" his voice echoed, and then quickly was shushed as the footman continued:

"The recital begins at eight o'clock. First your cousins, then Lady Russell. When your aunt begins playing, get to the garden maze. Sam will be there, waiting for you."

"The garden maze? Then he is not in Lambton? But how…?"

"No time to explain," Tom whispered, "but a word of caution, Mr. Wickham: the passages will be dark, as the torches are to be snuffed out at five minutes past the hour."

George swallowed. "How dark?"

"Pitch dark, but don't fret. A lantern will be placed at the entrance for you. Once you've entered, just start walking till you find him, or till he finds you."

George grew even more nervous. "But, Miss Baxter—how am I to avoid her? or the nannies? I will surely be caught!"

"Not if you are clever." He winked. "And we all know you are, Mr. Wickham."

George had so many more questions, each of which were stifled with Tom's hastily delivered message that ended with, "He is taking a tremendous risk for you, Mr. Wickham. If you are not there, you will never see him again. And if you are discovered, well—"

"Won't happen, Tom," said George determinedly. "I promise! Tell Sam I will be there."

The footman smiled. "He knows that already. You're like a son to him, y'know."

Their exchange lasted but a few more seconds, with George quickly contriving an excuse for the awaiting Miss Baxter, and then off he dashed through the home, out of doors, and back to the children's tent, wholly uplifted by the news, and scarcely able to wait till this evening.


	10. Chapter 10

"Pray for a boy, Darcy," whispered Frederick from just over his shoulder as guests were being seated for the much anticipated recital, the meticulously arranged candelabras casting a brilliant glow around the makeshift theatre at the park's center.

"I pray all your children healthy, no matter their sex," Darcy returned in an even quieter voice, eyes forward and head unmoving, his wife's attention thankfully on her chatty right-side neighbor.

In the aftermath of Frederick's wondrous announcement, Darcy had been obliged to endure one observation, query or concern after another, his civility tested and energy spent by sundown. Not that the man noticed as he then replied:

"True, true, there is no need to suppose this the only one. Priscilla is still so young, so sturdy…" (a deep sigh) "…so utterly perfect…"

_Perfect, you say?_ thought Darcy as Frederick went on:

"…but the estate is entailed, you see; and though luck was kind enough to gift _you_ a fine pair of boys, she tends to forsake me in these matters. No, I must think positive and count on complete success; for I should be damned before Kingston falls into the hands of my stupid cousin Lathrop, or any one of his imbecilic offspring. They are not even Blackwells!"

"Indeed, none are worthy but the son _you_ have lawfully sired."

Frederick failed to detect the edge in Darcy's tone as he continued: "And the reward, I should think, is well worth its potential cost; for it is said a woman's figure is lost forever, immaterial of one birth or twenty. What are your thoughts on this, Darcy? Your wife maintains a svelte physique, at least from _my_ perspective, but—"

"Frederick," Darcy bit out, "that is quite enough. Again I offer you a hearty congratulations, and wish your family health and happiness from today to eternity. I should now like to direct my attention forward, if you don't mind. My children are to perform directly."

The man finally quieted after that, leaving Darcy to his own musings, moreover to try and suppress the uncertainty felt in the hours following the joyous proclamation which had effectively (and rather selfishly) commandeered the evening, and his contemplations.

Ever would Darcy claim himself more realist than cynic; but the _truth_, convenient or cumbersome, supersedes every wish, ideal, feeling or hope, no matter the ferocity of one's endeavor to deny, argue or ignore it. Elizabeth, as a fellow pragmatist, was in full agreement, and had likewise submitted her helplessness over the situation. And unlike their prattling peers, the Darcys resolved to further treat the matter with the privacy it deserved, should the Blackwells have the compassion to confine whatever difficulties lay ahead, both marital and familial, to the sanctity of their household. But this, Darcy reckoned, was almost certainly a pipe dream, given the constant gnawing of his ear and trying of his patience. A nice, long holiday with the whole family was most definitely in order – Great Yarmouth, perhaps – and beginning tomorrow would the planning commence.

The decision was accompanied by a deep, calming breath, Darcy welcoming the feeling of peace and repose that passed swiftly as a breeze, and was not to return for another three months.

* * *

The children performed beautifully as per their weeks of rehearsal, the Darcys beaming with pride over the applause of the enraptured audience mindful of the rare privilege in hearing them, considering the innately private, protective, and non-exhibitionist nature of their hosts.

Lady Georgiana Russell, perhaps the most accomplished _pianiste_ in Derbyshire, next took her place behind the well-positioned pianoforte. Facing the audience, she then played a flawless sonata with all the difficulty of a morning stroll, the audience lulled into a silent state of enchantment by the closing strains. It was not until the opening of her next piece, that the murmuring slowly emanated, first quietly, then with elevated volume as the distinct whiff of smoke in the air sent a wave of alarm through the crowd.

The song abruptly ended, Georgiana besieged with fear as she pointed out to what the crowd was obliged to turn around and view for themselves. More than a hundred yards away was found the source of the ever-thickening cloud, the sudden appearance of an orange flare eliciting a burst of gasps and cries:

"**Fire!" **

"**The gardens!" **

"**Dear God!**"

Panic rose as the crowd from their chairs, the Darcys staring in shock and horror at the flames billowing higher and higher from the garden maze.

* * *

The response had been swift, as was the raising of the alarm. By the time the brigades showed up, the inferno could be seen for miles, tenants and townsfolk conjecturing Pemberley's doom and numerous fatalities as they stared in awe at the red-orange glow in the horizon from the safety and comfort of their small cottages.

Their predictions might have been realized, were it not for the high levels of humidity in the air which slowed the fire's spreading significantly. But for a few fainting spells, by divine providence had there been no reports of injury, which was counted as one of very few blessings in the aftermath of a blaze that never reached the manor house.

The gardens, however, were not so lucky. It took two whole days and every engine on tap to fully extinguish the fire that reduced five acres of greenery to an ash-ridden wasteland of stone fountains, Greek statues and scorched earth. Pemberley's conservatory – once the largest in Derbyshire – was now a splintered heap of wood and glass, the famed labyrinth down to a rough sketch of what it used to be, with rows of charred branches sprouting from the blackened soil. Gone were the exquisitely crafted topiaries, the fragrant, freshly bloomed botanicals so many visitors had claimed to be the highlight of their tour, the walking paths all that remained of a once-renowned emblem of beauty and tranquility.

Though the turmoil had finally abated, the grief only swelled as the master and mistress wandered like lost spirits through the devastation on that third morning, both ravaged with sleeplessness and worry over the disappearance of their nephew, who remained the singular loved one as yet unaccounted for, the suspected culprits vanished amid the chaos with thousands of pounds worth of valuables in their possession.

But the despairing couple gave not two straws for their missing jewels and silver, nor cared a whit about the study found raided and robbed of a few hundred in bank notes, Darcy's solid oak desk gashed beyond repair with the force of many hatchet blows for the pilfering of its scant amount of funds. All that mattered to them was George, whose disappearance, once confirmed, had prompted the establishment of a search party led by their most capable cousin Richard, a retired lieutenant colonel and honored war veteran, maimed in Waterloo long before the earldom and all its luxuries. Dozens of men – farmers and gentry alike – volunteered for the formal search to commence after breakfast, which the Darcys had skipped in favor of combing through the debris, the occupation preserving their sanity as their willfulness urged them on. Through the morning they searched without rest, praying _not_ to find what remained of their nephew buried beneath a mound of burnt rubble.

As the sun moved directly overhead, Elizabeth finally fainted for lack of energy and sustenance. Darcy immediately ran to her, swept her up, and carried her back towards the house, fighting his own fatigue as he vowed to her that George _would_ be found, and begging that she not give up hope. And while she recovered, the search continued, as did Matthew's investigation which sought to retrace the steps which might lead to the boy's whereabouts. For want of sharper minds was the good doctor recruited as detective, the local authorities serving more as associates in this deeply personal case.

Among the first to come forward was Miss Baxter, still shaken three days after the incident. Her version of things revealed her the last to have seen George before the fire, her following of protocol (and genuine distress) ostensibly absolving her of any blame.

According to the governess, a footman named Tom (one of several missing suspects) had removed George from the children's tent on the claim that the master required a word in private. Darcy was then summoned from his wife's bedside to confirm or deny this footman's claim, to which he answered that he'd had every intention of speaking with George "—but after the party," he added roughly. "Lizzy had told me he was distraught about…about Sam Cullen. I should have talked to him then. Had I done so…"

He went silent, lip quivering with the intensity of his anguish and self-reproach.

Matthew's brow knit in perplexity. "Who is Sam Cullen?" he asked, thus initiating a thorough explanation of the former handler believed to have a large role in the conspired act of villainy.

"You could not have foreseen this, Darcy," Matthew assured him at the story's conclusion, "just as Miss Baxter could not have foreseen the footman's deception."

"I should have trusted my instincts," Miss Baxter lamented. "I had thought it very strange, that Mr. Wickham should be summoned at the party's apex, but like a fool I took Tom at his word! After having lost sight of the master, I determined he must have gone indoors, and thus recommenced my duties. Mr. Wickham returned in so little time and in such good humor that I deduced all was well, that his happiness must be attributed to whatever was said at the meeting. Had I only trusted my gut feeling that something was amiss! Indeed, the fault is mine. Oh, Mr. Darcy, I am so sorry!"

Darcy gave no response the woman's plea as Matthew fervidly contended, "You were extremely busy, Miss Baxter, with over a dozen young children to watch over. Surveying the master's every move would absolutely have been a dereliction of duty. You are not at fault."

"Indeed, the gravest error was Darcy's," said Sir Frederick, just entering the room with Charles Bingley and John Russell as part of the returning search party gathering elsewhere to take refreshment, their skin and clothes smeared with soot, and grim expressions speaking to their lack of success.

"You are out of line, Sir Frederick," said Bingley, "I daresay vicious to make that remark at such a moment."

"He is right, Bingley," Darcy quietly argued. "I am a damned fool and deserve to be upbraided as such."

Matthew brusquely excused the governess, who then quit the room in haste as the generally passive doctor, eyes flaring with antipathy, confronted Sir Frederick with the following: "Perhaps you might offer something more useful, Frederick, than the casting of blame."

"Gladly," said Frederick, pausing to wipe his face with a handkerchief. "We were shown a miniature, as some in our party knew not the boy's face. Upon studying this little portrait, I absolutely started upon recognition; for it was the same boy I'd happened upon whilst en route to this manor four days ago. The likeness portrayed a young gentleman, smartly attired and cleaner than virgin silver. My own eyes, however, perceived a common stable boy, filthy and ragged as the man with whom he strolled, casually, towing that fallow of yours, Darcy, as if the chore were a perfectly natural and routine occurrence. I dare hypothesize the man was none other than this Cullen fellow you've been on about."

John cut in with a sharp retort: "The camaraderie between Cullen and George has been well established, Sir Frederick. Mistakes have been acknowledged, and you are due no explanation of what you saw. If you mean to scold or shame my brother-in-law further, I suggest you join the others in the saloon."

"On the contrary, Lord Russell, I mean to posit a theory I feel has not been considered; that young Mr. Wickham just might have been one of the conspirators."

"The devil you say!" cried Bingley in outrage, then looking to his friend, "Darcy, you need not stand for this egregious allegation."

"I make no allegation," Frederick returned. "It is not a charge, but merely a notion based on very limited understanding," his voice lowered to add, "as well as a fair bit of history with the boy's namesake. You are a good, kind man, Mr. Bingley, but you are no clairvoyant, nor am I. Of the men in this room, only Darcy knows whether my theory is sound, or it is madness."

Eyes went to Darcy, who, after several moments, replied softly, "It is not madness."

"Ha! There, you see!"

"But I do not believe it," Darcy more firmly asserted. "If…If my nephew is still alive, which I am positive that he is, I believe him taken against his will, that he was groomed, cajoled, and ultimately lured into an involvement of which he is wholly innocent, if not ignorant. No, he is _not_ among the perpetrators. Wherever George is, he is frightened, and probably suffering…"

On the verge of tears, Darcy was forced to swallow the lump in his throat. He rose abruptly from his seat, and then went away in as much haste as Miss Baxter, leaving three of his relations to further confront the outsider ready and eager to defend his position.

"Well done, sir," said Matthew facetiously. "Your contribution, as always, has been highly beneficial."

"What I said was out of the utmost concern for this whole godforsaken dilemma," Frederick argued passionately. "You think I am heartless?" He pointed towards the exit. "That I've no love for that man, no sympathy for what he and his family suffer? He said it himself, Dr. Fitzwilliam: 'It is not madness,' and why? Because he knows, just as you and I do, exactly where, and more critically _whom_ that boy comes from. _That_ was the grave error of which I spoke, Darcy's well-meaning disregard of the blood which pumps through that boy's veins."

"You call him _'that boy' _one more time, Frederick, I swear to God…"

"What? What will you do, Matty Fitzwilliam? Come on then!"

Bingley swiftly stepped between the two men near to trading blows, arms outstretched to hold them at bay. "Enough! Sir Frederick, I'll not argue the late Wickham's reputation, nor shall I refute that you knew him—"

"Barely," Matthew snapped, "and by happenstance, certainly not willingly. He looked down on George Wickham, looked down on my uncle Darcy for loving him, as the Blackwells look down on _anyone_ two rungs below royalty." He stared daggers at Frederick. "And on not one occasion was Wickham _honored_ with your respect. Not a word. You only mocked him—berated him!"

"And what became of him?" cried Frederick. "What becomes of an indolent hustler, a seducer and a whorehound, a degenerate gambler who finds himself at the business end of a dueling pistol? And when such men are finally, mercifully dealt with, what do you suppose becomes of the progeny they leave behind? It is a vicious cycle! This contemporary notion that the savage can be civilized, that a perfect blend of benevolence and cultivation can make gentlemen of peasants, is idealistic (and clearly destructive!) nonsense. From the boy's arrival was the Darcy design as doomed to failure as the generation before. A man cannot secede from his own bloodline—for _that_ is what determines his proclivities, and ultimately his destiny, the _ancestral_ blend which produces our greatest good, and greatest evil."

"You are wrong, sir," John abruptly interceded, prompting Frederick and the others to meet his austere aspect.

"With respect, Lord Russell, I am not wrong. And you of all people should concur. Your own line, in all its rich history, does include a good number of, well…"

"Scoundrels? Wastrels? Degenerates?"

"I've no wish to condemn your family, sir."

"You just did, sir. The Darcys _are_ my family, as are the Fitzwilliams, the Bingleys, all whom I hold dear, not excluding this _peasant boy_ you see so fit to disparage."

"I disparage no one! I speak with total impartiality, and with the hope that such incidents as these may be avoided in the future."

"You insult me, as well. By your _objective_ rationale, Sir Frederick, I too am poisoned and thus doomed to disgrace, just like my father and brother."

"I concede that the curse of bad blood afflicts the majority, whilst a lucky minority are spared. _You_, Lord Russell, are a blessed contrast to His Grace and Lord Thornhaugh. You lead a good, moral life, and yet you reject the marquessate in favor of a lesser title, still honoring a brother as if he still lives, and dishonoring your heritage in the process."

"Titles," Bingley rejoined, "are as trivial as blood, Sir Frederick. Interpersonal connections are what truly matter. A family is made of _love_—not pedigree—_respect_—not fortune—_affection_—not distinction. It exceeds everything: the demands of station, the duties of position, the scrutiny of society. Nothing is mightier than a family bound by love. Nothing is more liberating than the defiance of a convention which constantly seeks the approval and consideration of strangers. A family needs only one another, and to hell with all the rest."

Frederick folded his arms, stiff as steel, the very model of stubborn indignation. "I respectfully disagree, sir. I believe in duty, and shall teach my son as I was taught, to carry on the Blackwell name, to both preserve and elevate the station to which we have ascended over the course of centuries."

"And the stations of others best to remain stagnant," countered Matthew, "for the greater good, of course."

Frederick ignored the dig, saying to John, "Your name, despite all misfortune, represents generations' worth of glorious service to the Empire. I've no doubt the Russells, while presently at a low point, are set to rise again, as a phoenix from the ashes, with you as the Duke of Bedfordshire…when the time comes."

"When my father expires, you mean. Or when he crawls out of obscurity long enough to renounce his title; that is, before Parliament succeeds in stripping it from him."

"Please let us not pursue such unpleasantness, Lord Russell. Please accept my apologies for offending you. Truly, I mean no offense to _anyone_, least of all this poor youth. Let us reoccupy our thoughts and efforts with him."

"No family is cursed!" John spiritedly exclaimed. "My father, as all men, bears the consequence of his _choices_, not of a tainted bloodline. And my brother, while far from perfect, was a man of principle, with a brilliant mind and passion for a life that was as cruel to him as he was to himself. He was not a _devil_ as they all claimed. He was not a _defect_, and neither is little George."

"I shall say no more, sir," submitted Frederick, who, after a moment's silence, blurted out, "though I should hardly call a cold-blooded murderer a man of principle."

John advanced, fists raised and face flushed with anger, before Bingley and Matthew took hold of him, bidding he calm himself while his antagonist assumed a defensive stance.

"That was never proven!" John gritted out, wresting himself from their grip. "You know the official report, but of the _truth_ you are as ignorant as all the other hypocrites my brother despised."

"Is that so? Then pray enlighten me, Lord Russell. What is the truth? What really happened that day Thornhaugh jumped to his death?"

John opened his mouth, presumably to answer, but then fell silent at Matthew's cautionary utterance of his name. Then said the doctor, "This business was laid to rest long ago, nearly ten years. The report _is_ the truth, and no purpose can be served in reassessing it. As for Thornhaugh, well, every perception of him shall remain unaltered, his exploits to remain the stuff of myth and legend till the passage of time drives his memory into darkness. Right, John?"

John answered with a tentative nod of his head, muttering, "Forgive my outburst, gentlemen. I know not what came over me."

"You are exhausted, as we all are," said Bingley. "We should take some time to rest and replenish before resuming our efforts first thing in the morning."

Declared Frederick, "I need only four hours' sleep, a crust of bread, and a warm bath."

"Ah, the ol' Blackwell spirit," said Matthew flippantly. "'Win or die,' as your father would say."

Frederick flashed him a fierce glare before replying, "Darcy caught my wife when she fainted. Dead or alive, I shan't relent till his nephew is found and my friend at peace. What say you, gentlemen?"

John and Bingley looked at one another, eventually coming to an agreement to reconvene within five hours, no longer.

* * *

On his way to the bedroom, Darcy panicked at the sudden appearance of his children. On their advancement he pivoted towards the empty end of the hall, wiping the moisture from his reddened eyes. "What are you doing?" he cried, motioning for them to come no further. "Go back to the nursery at once! Mrs. White!"

Promptly the nanny's voice was heard explaining that they had fled the room after hearing footsteps. "Come away, children," the woman ordered to their vehement protests, Janie demanding to know if George was still missing.

After several pleas, Darcy answered her, calm as he could manage, "Yes, my love, but not for long; now go along with Mrs. White."

"May we help, Papa?" asked Malcolm, the cry in his voice nearly dropping Darcy to the floor as a punch to the gut.

In the firmest tone was his order repeated, all but the eldest told to be gone lest they bear the repercussion. Said Darcy, once their solitude was intuited, "Ben?"

"Yes, Papa?" the boy answered, heard sniffing back tears.

Darcy gathered his last bit of resilience to say, evenly, "Be strong now, son. I am relying on you to look after your brother and sister. Soothe them. Tell them not to fret. Assure them we are doing all we can, and that George shall be recovered by and by. Dry your tears, sir. It is on your strength they must rely. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," was Ben's half-whispered reply before he was told to join his siblings in the nursery.

Once he was alone, Darcy swiveled back around and resumed his walk to the bedchamber. Quietly he entered the darkened room in which is wife was immersed in a restless sleep, barely covered for the endless shifting of the bedclothes. Drawing closer, he took note of the tray resting on the nightstand, the bread unbroken and broth barely touched.

"Darling," he whispered, positioning himself on the edge of the bed. "Sweetheart, you must eat. Please, my love…" He lay a hand on her hair, the other raking over his grizzled face.

At his gentle stroking, she startled. "William? George?" she said, raising up slightly. In the vagueness her eyes found his. "Have you found him? Is he safe?"

He shook his head, tearing off a bite of bread and then bringing it to her lips. "Please, darling. Eat this."

She pushed it away, curling into a tight ball, hands pressed over her face. "Oh, George," she moaned, "where are you?"

"Shhhh, he will be found, my darling," Darcy's voice cracked, "I swear it. Take nourishment, I beg you. We must keep up our strength." He popped the bread into his mouth, chewing once or twice before swallowing it down forcefully. "For George, you see? Now you, Lizzy. Go on."

"What if he is dead, William? What if—oh, my poor, dear George! I promised to keep you safe! I promised Lydia! Oh, God…"

With her sobs fell the last vestiges of Darcy's fortitude. With a whimper he crushed her to his breast, rocking her gently as they wept together, coiled as knotted vines in a desperate embrace.


	11. Chapter 11

"Oi, Wickham…" The whisper grew louder. "Georgie boy! Time to wake up!"

With another firm nudge the nightmarish visions were slain and George stirred into consciousness, head aching and thoughts a muddle. Fear gripped him as his eyes opened to near total darkness, the scarce few slivers of light piercing through a boarded up window.

George shot up, chest heaving and arms reaching. In terror and confusion he cried out, struck by the feel of a hard floor beneath him, his only cushioning a thin blanket, and nostrils attacked with the moldy smell of rotted wood.

It took a few seconds for his eyes to fully adapt, finally making out the shadow perched over him. "Rise'n shine, Mr. Wickham! Time for breakfast!"

"Sam!" George felt around, desperately, feeling smothered beneath the beastly black shroud. "Light a candle," he begged. "Please, I don't like the dark. Sam—"

"Steady on!" Sam took hold of his shoulders, his strong hold shocking him into stillness. "Ye' got nothin' to fear, lad—not with ol' Sam around. Now I'm go'na let ye' go, and ye' go'na be calm, yes?"

A mute nod induced Sam to release his grip. Moments later, a single candle was finally lit, casting the faintest glow over their dank, minimal quarters.

Confusion supplanted fear as George worked feverishly to put the pieces of his puzzled mind together. He made a quick study of his wardrobe, of a fine dress coat soiled, shirtsleeves and stockings stained a vulgar shade of brown, bottoms torn and dirtied. His impeccably shined shoes, now filthy and worn, were set carelessly at his feet; but even that paled in comparison to the dim and decrepit surroundings, the barren fireplace, the discolored walls full of cracks and openings where rodents had burrowed, the hopelessly decayed ceiling barely holding strong, the putrefied planks nailed over the glassless window…

George's mouth fell open. "Sam—"

"Don't worry," he said before the first of many questions leapt off George's tongue. "Ye' still at Pemberley. Well, the property, that is. Did you know 'bout this ol' cottage? Once belonged to a tenant; a farmer named Beedle, been dead these twenty or so years. Last of his family, no mates, lived all alone, just him and his mule, till he finally dropped dead of God-knows-what. House was so broken down the master condemned it. Now why would he do that, you reckon? S'good plot o' land, this. Why not restore the place, bring in a new tenant, get the farm back up to scratch? God knows he's got the means to. Ever notice how the rich ain't got the will to match their means? Lazy sods. Useless as a gun without a trigger, eh, Georgie boy? You hungry? Here, eat some of this bread. It ain't fresh, but it's all we got. Got a bit of porridge left, too. That should tide ye' over till nightfall."

George did not catch half of Sam's speech; for he was far too dazed and too thirsty, his head throbbing. He smacked his dry lips and requested a drink of water, finding not the usual glass and pitcher at his bedside.

A hip flask was placed in George's open palm. "Just a sip now," said Sam. "It's got to last till we get to Lambton."

George frowned at the narrow vessel, a remembrance of Hertfordshire flashing before his eyes, of Mr. Hughes, the old soaker hired every winter by Mother to chop firewood for the coin to fill the flask he nipped from all day long.

The fleeting memory brought tears to his eyes. "I want my mother," he whimpered.

"You dry them eyes now," Sam whispered softly. "I been takin' good care o' ya. And once we get to Lambton, it's just another matter o' days till we're all rich as kings."

"Lambton? I don't understand."

Sam smiled. "Tell ye' all about it, Georgie boy. But first, drink up."

George put the flask to his nose, and with one whiff threw it away, eliciting a loud curse from Sam as he swiftly went over to retrieve it.

"Are you bloody daft? I just said it's got to last! Now it's half empty, ye' li'l bastard!"

"That's rum!" George cried, then surveying the bowl of cold mush, "I don't even know what that is."

"Porridge, I told ye'! Ain't you ever had porridge? No, 'course you ain't. Spoilt thing like you wakes up to fresh rolls and marmalade every mornin', bacon and eggs, hot chocolate…"

"The bread's hard as a rock."

"Do this look like a bloody bake shop? Frank went to a lot o' trouble in bringin' what li'l we's got. Go hungry if it pleases ye'—'sup to you!"

"I'm sleepy…thirsty…and my head hurts…"

Sam laughed. "Sounds like ye' brain's full o' mush as that bowl. Take some time to try and remember. You been asleep a bloody long time."

"How long?"

"'Bout three days now. Few spurts of consciousness here and there, but—"

"Three days! How is that even possible?"

"Don't start up again," Sam firmly admonished. "'Member what I said about keepin' calm." He then extended a brown bottle. "This helped."

George stared until the label became legible. "Laudanum!" he exclaimed. "But that's…for three days! Sam—"

His mouth was then smothered by a meaty palm, a loud "Shhhhhh!" stifling his muffled words. "I had to!" Sam whispered furiously. "You gotta believe me! And ye' gotta be quiet!" Sam slowly removed his hand, looking genuinely pained as he went on: "Ye' hurt me, George, ye' really do. Ye' think I'd of done it without a damn good reason? Ye' confused an' frightened—that's reasonable—but try lookin' at the bright side o' things. Ye'r in good health, ye' ain't alone, and we ain't here much longer, promise. Blimey! Who'd ye' think's been takin' ye' to the piss pot all this time? Me, that's who! Made ye' comfortable as I could manage. Ain't the nice soft mattress from ye' nice gentleman's quarters, but a wood floor ain't all bad. I slept on dirt half me life! Y'er better off than most. Do ye' some good, mate, to bear a li'l hardship. The poor live it every day; surely you can go a week. I'd never let nothin' happen to ye'. But I had to bring ye' out here, see?"

"No, I don't see," George wearily replied, fingers massaging his temples, the effects of the potion still lingering. "I don't know how I got here, or why. I scarcely remember anything."

"Right then. Tell me what ye' do remember."

George squeezed his eyes shut, straining hard before answering, "Everything's so hazy, Sam," he slurred, "like a mad storm…in my head. Flashes appear…like lightening. The party…the recital. I remember Janie, Ben and Malcolm performing. I remember Aunt Georgie, and then…"

Sam nodded encouragingly. "And then we met up in the maze. You was all proud that no one caught ye' sneakin' off. 'Member that?"

"I think so."

"You think you 'member, or you think no one saw ye'?"

"Um…"

"Never mind. If you was seen, we wouldn't be havin' this conversation, would we?" Sam chuckled, and then proceeded to fill in in the forgotten details of their conversation in the maze, George's fractured memory having retained but the smallest fragments. He had been angered, he recalled, by Sam's own recount of the beating he took, of the master's cruelty and cowardice confirmed with the raising of his shirt, where the scars were plainly visible…

"And then," said George, "you…you snatched the lantern from my hand."

"That ain't true!" Sam cried. "Ye' said ye' hated him, that he weren't y'er uncle no more, and you was comin' wit' me. 'Member that?" (George shook his head) "Believe me, boy. I tried talkin' ye' out of it, but you was bound an' determined. And then I told ye' what had to be done, and ye' gave up the lantern of y'er own free will. Never forced ye', no sir."

"There was a burst of flame," George murmured. "You, Sam. You smashed the lantern to the ground. Why?"

"I told ye', George. The plan was in motion. Whether you came along or not, I had to do me bit."

"What bit? What plan?"

"Listen to me, George. You said you was one of us now, that you was all in. Remember?"

"I…the fire grew and grew…and then…"

"Ye' gotta believe me, mate. You swore you was all in, but there was no time to explain."

"You…knocked me in the head. I remember…"

"For y'er own protection, boy!" Sam argued desperately. "You'd of been killed had I not done it. We was both in danger, and I had to stick to the plan; had to do me bit before it was too late. And it worked, George! It worked! Well, for the most part. All in all, nowt was hurt but the ye' noddle, a few acres, and y'er uncle's wallet. And now…_now_ we's just a few days away from bein' rich, me an' you! And a few others."

"Others?"

"Frank, Basil, Tom, Gwen, Sally—and now _you_, George. Can't pull off a caper like this without a dependable crew, just like ye' can't get nowhere in the world without mates; and we's more than that now. We's _family_."

"So the maze, it's…gone?" George choked out, eyes stung with tears.

"Now, now…don't be all downcast. What's that place to you? Think about it, boy. Ye' uncle spent more on shrubbery than the gardeners what kept it up, more than me da' ever spent on me mum, on _me, _on me brothers and sisters, ten times more than a factory owner would ever spend on the labor what makes his fortune!"

"But…" George wept, "…but I really loved that maze, Sam."

"More than ye' best mate, Georgie boy?"

"Well, no, but…"

"Why I'd wager, come next year, that maze'll be bigger and better'n before. S'all about appearances with these upper class twits. They live an' love to show off. They don't care 'bout what's really important—not like _us_, George. Gardens, they die in the cold, then spring back to life, whereas a friendship like ours is…what ye' call it? Evergreen! Them Darcys are just relations—not ye' true family. Ye' don't even share their name. Ye' got no name, but ye' worth more than the lot of'em, far more than them sodding hedge rows. But do they see that? No! Ye' get not a word of appreciation! just orders an' rules, rules an' orders! But that was y'er ol' life, see? and y'er new one's just 'round the bend. Ye' want horses? We'll have the finest in England. Wanna be a sailor? We'll have our very own ship!"

"Our very own ship," George slowly repeated. "Like…like a pirate ship? Like Blackbeard and…and the _Queen Anne's Revenge_?"

"Aye, I suppose so. Was this Blackbeard a tough bloke?"

George nodded weakly. "The toughest, cleverest, most infamous pirate on the high seas. He and his crew captured a French vessel and equipped her with forty guns."

"We'll 'quip ours with eighty guns! and we'll sail around the world, havin' one adventure after another, only robbin' what them rich blokes can afford."

"And no harm will come to anyone who surrenders. Right, Sam?"

"That's right, mate—an' those who resist walk the plank. But first thing's first, George. I done me bit, they done theirs, and the fire…well, that bit's done, too. Hard part's over. Be thankful ye' slept through it. And they made off with a good bit o' treasure, they did! Gwen and Sally got the silver, and Baz and Frank got the jewelry, but—"

"Aunt Lizzy's jewelry? All of it?" George frowned. "Even the diamond necklace Uncle gifted her last Christmas?"

"Replaceable, George! All replaceable! They still got each other, their children, their home, all the love in the world…chin up! No harm done at all! Now I need ye' to listen good, Georgie boy. We won't get half of what the swag is worth. That's a problem. Tom thought he'd hit a fortune in that study, but he was wrong. All in all, we got way more product than coin. What's more, the nearest fence is in London."

"London," said George, smiling. "I've always wanted to go to London."

Sam ruffled his hair. "And you'll get your wish."

"What's a fence, Sam?"

"A mover. A buyer. Believe me, you'll learn everything in due course. I got a few connections, but we need more money, George. _Real_ coin. Weren't but ol' useless papers in the cabinet an' 'bout three or four hundred in the desk; not nearly enough."

"Tom broke into Uncle Darcy's desk? Oh, dear. I hope he didn't damage it too badly. Ben says it's more than a hundred years old; that it once belonged to his grandfather, and his great grandfather, and—"

"Shhh, le' me think, boy. Four hundred at most, split between the seven of us. On that we won't get too far for too long."

"Sounds more than enough to me."

"But it ain't, George, believe me. That's where your bit comes in. Ye' may be just a boy, but ye' gotta pull ye' weight…and _you're_ the most important of all of us, because ye' the only one what can write worth a damn."

Feeling himself beginning to nod off, George lay back down. "I'm not terribly adept, actually. My cousins earn far higher marks in penmanship."

"But that ain't an option, now is it?" Sam pulled him back up, shaking slightly, back into coherence. "Ye'r _adept_ enough—an' useful! Ye' ain't got no name, but you are somethin' the rest of us ain't, an' that's educated."

"Edward Teach—he was educated, too."

"Who?"

"Blackbeard."

"Ah. Well, that's you then. You're a right scholar compared to the likes of us. Tom can write a little, but it's chicken scratch. I can only write me own name, and the others ain't no better. All we need is a short note for ye' aunt an' uncle."

"A note? Like a ransom note?"

"Precisely! But the pen, paper, ink…all that's in Lambton."

"Is that—is that where the others fled to? Tom and Frank and…"

"That's right. Never mind the exact spot, but that's where we's headin', and we gotta move quick. The search is on, now that the fire's out, an' it won't be long till they get to Lambton, startin' with the inns and boardin' houses." Sam pointed to the window, the slivers of light faded. "Sun's settin', George. Gotta leave soon. Better take off that frock coat an' un-tuck that shirt. Can't be seen with a boy what looks like a gent."

George nodded in feeble compliance, and proceeded to follow his friend's order. He touched his neck to find his cravat already removed, the twisted length of cloth now part of the floor as the rat droppings.

Sam helped him along, muttering vows of solidarity that were barely understood. In the swirling, perpetual daze lingered two prevailing thoughts: that his uncle Darcy was a villain, and Sam all he had in the world, his only means of survival and, apparently, of good fortune.

"Ransom," said George. "Ransom means an exchange, does it not? I thought you said I was one of you now, Sam."

"You are! I'd never let'em take ye' 'way, George. Frank and Baz have it all worked out, and in the end, we's gettin' you _and_ the money. An' you know what else? Nobody's gettin' hurt. Ye' got me word on that. Just like nobody was hurt in the fire. That's enough questions for now, eh, George? From here on out, ye' gonna have to trust me."

"Lambton's a long way off."

"Just five miles or so. It's the perfect distance…not too close, like Kympton; not so far off as Matlock. But it's a walk, boy. A good, long walk. So ye' better eat up and have a sip o' that rum, 'cause you'll be needin' every bit o' strength come dark."

"I'm—scared, Sam. Everything is happening so fast…"

Sam took George's face between his hands, staring intensely. "Trust me, Son. And that's what you are to me, George—a son. Never had one of me own till now. I'd do anything in the world for ye'. All's I need ye' to do is return the favor. Just this once, bear out the dark, run quick as ye' can, and, above all, stick wit' me. I'll keep ye' safe, promise. Right, George?"

"Right, Sam."

* * *

George was out of breath not five minutes after they quit the cottage, his thoughts gradually becoming clearer as his insides burned with overexertion.

"Sam," he panted as they cut through Pemberley Wood, Sam's long strides impossible to match, his grip on George's hand like a vice.

"What is it?"

"I'm so thirsty—I need—water—please—"

"All out o' rum, boy. Try not to think about it. Just keep movin' ye' feet. We're so close. So bloody close."

A few seconds later. "Sam…"

"Bloody hell…what now, George? Pick up them feet, boy! Catch up! Ye' hear them hounds in the distance?"

"That's—what I wanted to—ask about. Please—I have to rest! I can't go—any farther!"

"Damn it, boy! Two minutes, no longer! Go and get behind that tree, there."

George collapsed against a great oak, now fully sober and highly confused, sucking in mouthfuls of air as he labored to slow his heaving breaths. "Why has—my uncle—sent hounds?"

"To find _you_, o' course," Sam replied. "I never counted on so many to come lookin' for ye'. Not this soon after the fire. Should've left the night before. Listen here!—the road to Lambton's just over that hill—then we can walk at our own pace. But for now, we gotta keep movin'! Now! _Now!_"

The desperation in Sam's voice was as alarming as his forceful clutching of George's arm which triggered an instinctive resistance. He cried out, thrashing violently, but in the next moment was thrown into paralysis by a sudden, hard strike of a large hand across his face, the sting of it like fire against his cheek. Absolutely stunned, George could only stare mutely at this shadowed, monstrous figure, this man who had called him son, his best mate, his true friend.

His lip quivered, tears fell, and he began to tremble, an ever-increasing sense of dread twisting his empty stomach into knots. Locked in an unyielding grip, George then felt rancid, ragged breath hot against his ear as Sam spat out: "If those dogs pick up your scent, I'm as good as dead! I'll be hanged, understand? Is that what you want, George? IS IT?"

George swallowed, his mouth dry as tinder, and in the next instant felt himself being hoisted up and over Sam's shoulder. Though he wanted to cry out again, George refrained for fear of being struck even harder. He marveled at the sheer will and strength put into hauling him like a sack of flour up the pine-rich incline. Not a word was uttered as Sam, wheezing and gasping, took the hill in a mad dash, his movements frantic and unfaltering as he dodged one tree after another like a fox fleeing the hunters hard on his heels.

The momentum was maintained even after reaching the top of the hill, Sam's steps slackened to a brisk jog until he finally announced, in a breathless laugh, that he could see the road to Lambton. "They ain't—picked up the scent," he cried, finally lowering George to the ground. "Ain't picked up—the scent—Georgie boy! Listen!"

George did not reply. He was ordered again, sharply, to open his ears and listen. "I'm listening," he finally whispered, and sure enough the barking had faded in volume, down to the faintest echo.

Once his breath was caught, Sam proudly repeated, "Ain't got the scent, boy. Ain't reached the Beedle house, not even close. Miles more acreage than manpower, and not enough dogs to cover it all! Ha! Serves ye' right, ye' greedy bastards! We can take our time now. Just keep close to the wood in case a carriage comes along. Still a way's to go yet."

Sam wrapped his hand around George's slight wrist, tightly, towing him along as he towed Aries just a few days prior, back when they were still the best of friends, when George trusted him as he would his own father, had he known the man. When he had, just days ago, thought Sam an indispensable part of his life, now he truly feared for it, feared as the black void of darkness his monstrous captor with the vice-like grip on his limb. Sam was older, bigger, taller, vastly more powerful, while he, George Wickham, was scrawny and dim. Not a word of what Sam had told him, from months ago to this moment, could be trusted, and George sincerely believed he could no longer distinguish fact from fiction, truth from lie. He had not the strength to fight him, nor the brains to outwit him; moreover, he was crushed emotionally by the betrayal he could not reconcile. All of it, his kindness, his compliments, his good turns, was now fully understood to have been a trick—a _ruse_, as Miss Baxter would say.

George's thoughts then turned to his uncle Darcy, who was looking for him, or at the very least had formed a search party of some kind. And a large one, according to Sam. Perhaps all was not lost. There was a chance. A slim chance, but a chance, nonetheless.

Knowing not what else to do, George thought back on Sunday church services, stared up into the moonless night, and began praying in silence for someone—_anyone_—to come to his rescue.

In mid-prayer, Sam finally broke the silence. "Sorry I smacked ye', Georgie boy. You know I'd never hurt ye'—not really. Ol' Sam just got a bit upset, is all. Me da' used to smack me 'round all the time. Don't mean nothin'. Just needed y'er attention, see? Else the whole plan goes to hell."

"How much will you demand?" George murmured in response, a private _Amen_ sending his prayer heavenward.

"What's that?"

"The ransom. How much?"

"We ain't come to an exact figure yet. The others say five, but I reckon ten thousand."

"Ten thousand! That is a terribly avaricious amount."

"What'd I tell ye' 'bout that posh language, boy?"

"It is doubtful my uncle would give up so much—not for _me_. His own children, most assuredly, but—"

"Mrs. Darcy, she'll see to it. Y'er her dead sister's only child, heir to the family home. She's a soft spot for ye', and the master for _her_. We'll be paid what we ask."

"Or what?"

"Hm?"

"Should you be refused, what will be done to me?"

"Ain't what we do to ye', boy. It's what we convince _them_ will be done to ye'. That's all what matters. No one, not even them Darcys, wants a corpse on their conscience, least of all their nephew's."

"And what if…what if you were to just hand me back over once the ransom is paid?"

"Hand ye' over? But you said you was all in, George. One of us now. Remember?"

George snuffled and sniffed, tears coursing down his cheeks. "I don't want anyone hurt, Sam. I don't—want my own ship. I don't want to—rob people. I don't want to be a—pirate. I just want to—go home."

He was sobbing now, which only added to his exhaustion, his thirst, and ultimately his fear when Sam replied: "I can't give ye' back, George. Can't risk it."

"I won't say a word, I promise," George pled. "I'll—I'll tell them you saved me from the fire, that you're a good man. I'll tell them anything you want, just…please, Sam…"

"Ah, George. It won't be so bad. Listen, once we get to Lambton, we'll get a nice hot meal and a good night's rest. Fresh start, tomorrow morning. You'll write the note, and then…"

Sam slowed his steps at the appearance of two small lights in the distance, and then halted completely upon discerning, unmistakably, the pair of lanterns perched atop an unhurried, but steadily approaching carriage.


	12. Chapter 12

"Off the road," Sam ordered, twisting the boy's wrist to steer him into the thick brush bordering the forest. "Get down."

George whinged and cried as Sam dropped them both into a mass of weeds, forcing the boy onto his belly and holding him in place with half his own body weight, one hand clenching the back of his neck. Though Sam's view was obscured from their worm's eye view, he focused hard, doggedly ignoring the ceaseless blubbering from beneath him. He really did regret the slap; not that he had a choice. No matter. In the end, it'll have all been worth it.

_So close. So bloody close._

They were well concealed within the brush, the clip-clopping of hooves getting louder.

Another whimper.

"Quiet," Sam warned in his deadliest tone, finally silencing the boy. Raising up slightly, he cleared his line of vision, just able to make out the transport drawing closer. With surprise he perceived not a stately coach, but a common hackney.

_Two horses, one driver; one passenger, a faceless shadow, probably a bloke, but too dark to be certain. _

Sam was still deeply immersed in his study when he heard the boy whisper, very seriously: "Be perfectly still, Sam. There is an adder right next to you. Fatal bite."

With the warning came a slight brushing up against his side, sparking an instant, violent response as Sam yelped and jerked away, flailing at the brush to scare off the unseen viper.

"_George!"_ he barked upon realizing he had been duped, his golden goose darting right into the open road, heading straight towards the oncoming carriage.

"Damn you, boy!" Sam bolted after him, catching up just as the spooked horses reared back at the sudden impediment.

George flapped his arms wildly, shouting, "HELP ME! HELP ME PLEASE!" at the top of his lungs. From behind, Sam threw one arm about his waist, the other hand clamping over his mouth.

He hissed in the boy's ear, "I'll handle this," while the addled jarvey took command of his horses. "Make one more sound and I'll snap your neck, ye hear?"

Once calm was restored, the jarvey cried, "Ho there!," shining a lantern on the pair now caught in a rather awkward and inexplicable position.

"Beg ye pardon, sir," Sam uttered tamely, his hand covering half the boy's face and arm constricting him like a serpent.

"Wot's this then?" snapped the driver now descending from his perch, lantern in hand, anger apparent. "The bloody hell you think you're doin'!"

"It ain't wot it looks like, sir—believe me!" Swiftly Sam altered his stance, releasing his incriminating hold on George to stand by his side while maintaining a firm grip on the boy's wrist.

Said Sam to the driver, "Boy's just havin' a fit is all, the naughty bugger. A thousand apologies to you and ye fare."

"This your boy then?"

"Aye, sir."

The jarvey, clearly suspicious, maintained a careful distance as he continued shining his lantern. "Wot ye doin' out here this hour?"

Over three days sequestered in that cottage, Sam had concocted a plausible tale for authorities and meddlers, but was not two words into it when a voice projected from within the cab: "Stop talking, please!"

The voice no doubt belonged to a gentleman, smooth and refined as silver. It went on, "You there, sir…"

"_Me_, sir?" Sam answered innocently.

"Indeed, the obstruction in my path. Come over to the window, please. Let us sort this out, you and I."

The jarvey interceded, his mistrustful glare fixed on Sam. "Don't think that's wise, sir. You had better let me—"

"No worries, Mr. Wallace," said the unseen passenger in a light, friendly tone. "This shan't take long, I assure you. Your patience is most appreciated."

Sam held his position, motionless, his hand still glued to George's wrist. "We're just on our way home, sir," he called out. "This boy…"

He trailed off as a hand emerged from the window, forefinger beckoning. "Closer please," said the gent. "Oblige me with a gentleman's conversation. Shouting is so coarse."

Sam cocked his head, eyes narrowed. "Why should we come to you? Why don't you come out?"

"I would, sir, had I the strength to."

Sam looked to the jarvey for confirmation of this statement. "S'true," said he. "He's weak an' ill. _I'm_ strong as a bull, though; so if you try anything—"

"He won't," the gent said with confidence. "We've nothing to gain from violence, while by means of civil discourse shall understandings be achieved. Conditionally, of course, and to our mutual benefit. I propose no exchanging of names or particulars, but would have you alter your present disadvantage with a face-to-face encounter; for you should be able to sketch _mine_ with as much detail as we could sketch yours. That is fair, is it not?"

Sam considered a moment. "Reckon it is."

"Excellent. Back to your station, please, Wallace," said the gent. "Leave us a bit of light, if you would be so kind. Not too much. Thank you. Now _you_, sir. To the window, please."

Guardedly, Sam walked George over to the gent's side of the cab, stopping right at the window, nowt between them but the door.

"Take a good, long look, sir," said the well-mannered gent with a smile in his voice.

Sam complied with caution, first making a quick inspection of the rather shabby interior before resting his gaze on the traveler, and finding himself astonished by the sight which toppled every expectation. The refined, commanding voice measured in no way to the arrestingly ragged bloke it belonged to, his appearance like that of an old mariner with his blackish beard extending just below the neck, sprigs of gray sprinkled throughout. Black hair peeked out from beneath his topper, meeting thick brows settled over the piercing dark eyes that adorned his pale, gaunt, weathered face. Committing his queer features to memory, Sam made a more thorough study, supposing his age between forty and forty-five and his height, were he standing, a bit taller than himself. He indeed looked sickly and frail, his brown overcoat concealing an almost skeletal frame. And possibly a weapon.

"You may join me inside if you like," the stranger said kindly.

"If ye don't mind," said Sam, "I'll just stand here, sir."

"You mean _we_, correct?"

"Aye, sir. Me and me boy here."

"You _are_ the father then? I should have known by the striking resemblance."

The quip jostled Sam a bit, and he looked hard at this unnervingly measured bloke who was making his suspicions plain, but not his purpose.

Sam watched him then extract a leather case from an inside pocket. "Cigar? I actually gave them up long ago, but maintain a reserve, you see. I give them out to new acquaintances."

He extended the case, a warm, inviting smile spread across his whiskered face. Sam began to reach for one, but at the last moment jerked his hand back. "Er…thank you. I mean, _no,_ thank you. Sir."

The man shrugged, returned the case, and then continued: "They say, when establishing a rapport, that nothing is more important than the very first impression. And while I feel _mine_ up to gentlemanly standards, yours was rather…dubious. Would you not agree?"

Sam chuckled. ""Not the best, I'll grant ye. But this lad here…he can drive a man up a bloody wall."

"Clearly. Listen, we've all places to be and things to do; so allow me to, first and foremost, condense this conversation with your admission that this boy is _not_ your son. Then we may proceed."

"Oh, but you misunderstood me, gov. I said he was me _boy_. Never said _son._"

"Ah, that you did, sir." Another smile, as if to gladly acknowledge the lost point in whatever game they were playing. "Then claim you not relation, but _guardianship_ then?"

"Aye, for the time bein'." _This bloke wants to play, then play we will. _"Now I got a question for _you_, sir."

Sam had fully expected a shifty response which he would then exploit, only to be disappointed when the man answered casually, "That is fair. Go right ahead. Ask as many as you like."

Sam struggled a bit in his reply, the man's courtesy and poise as off-putting as his appearance. "Right. Now then. Y'er on the road to Pemberley."

"Well observed. Not a question."

"Gi'me a moment!" Sam gathered himself before continuing. "Bit late to be payin' the Darcys a visit, ye' reckon?"

"Indeed it would be, were that my purpose."

"Well, s'clear you wish to know _my_ purpose, gov. So what's _yours_ then?"

"Now now, don't give up. You were getting warm. There is more than one family on this property, after all."

"What, you a tenant? If so, ye missed the turn a way's back."

"I've missed no turn, sir."

"Ye do know the Darcys then." _Not a question, bird wit!_ "I mean, don't you?"

"Marginally. But I am not here for that family."

"Only other one's up Summerhill. Them's the Russells."

"Well deduced."

"How'd ye know that lot?"

"Long lost relation."

"Bit hard to believe, that is. You don't look like no gentleman."

"Keen eye."

"But," Sam amended on second thought, "ye do talk like one."

"Good ear."

"Question is, how does an important soundin' bloke end up lookin' like _you_?"

"I should be glad to answer, but the story is a long one, and my time rather short. I cannot but refer you to the proprietors in St. James's Square."

"Ahhh, I see," Sam's look was of half understanding, half relief, as all the pieces fell into place. "Y'er one of those what ruined himself, ain't ye?"

"Precisely. Card tables, horse racing and everything in-between. And now here I am, from prince to pauper, lower than dirt and worth even less."

"So ye come to beg the duke's son for money, eh?" Sam had to smile.

"Now that is _my_ business," the man replied, "though not as lucrative, I'd wager, as your business with that boy."

Sam's smile dropped at the sudden (and unwelcome) turn their conversation had taken. He was quick to explain, "This boy's run off from home again. Fourth time this month. Son of a lender out Lambton, he is. The Jew's hired me to track him down, bring him back home."

"I see. On foot?"

"Lost me horse out in the wood. Jew boy's damn slippery, one of them spoilt li'l devils what don't know his own good fortune, what never minds, what gives his da' no end o' trouble."

"Dear me, what a pity," the man sighed. "Seems a right noble profession, retrieving privileged, wayward youths."

"Puts bread on the table."

"Only to have them fight you every step of the way, even stooping to pretense, shouting and flailing about as if he were in mortal danger, as if you had some nasty, ulterior motive, in effect putting his own protector at risk with such a reckless ploy." He shook his head sadly. "A true pity, what this generation has come to," then wagging a finger at the boy, "Shame on you, young man! And my respect to _you_, good sir, for your admirable, unenviable efforts."

The man tipped his hat. Sam gave a nod in return, privately thrilled with the success of his con.

"But the boy does look very tired," the man went on, "I cannot help but notice. As do you, sir. And with three miles yet to walk."

"Plenty tired, gov. Lad keeps complainin' o' hunger and thirst. Gone and made himself ill for no reason but mischief."

Silence fell between them as the man took a long spell staring at the boy, long enough to restore uneasiness, when out from beneath that scraggly beard surfaced a beaming grin, gaze rising to meet his, dark eyes squinting in amusement. "Perhaps he has finally learned his lesson, what?"

Sam puffed out a breath of reassurance. "Aye, that he has, gov! That he has!" The two men shared a good laugh before Sam went on to say, "Listen, mate. We could help each other out. Need money? Give us a ride back into Lambton, an' the Jew'll pay you, too. He pays well."

"Does he now?" The man pondered the proposal, clearly interested. "How much? More than what it would cost to turn this transport around, I should hope."

"Oh, much more. Much, much more. Believe me." And then Sam conceived an amount no man could refuse, least of all this unlucky sod, whose approving smile effectively clenched Sam's place as the victor in their little game. Still holding fast to George's wrist, he glanced down at the boy who seemed resigned to whatever should befall them next, before returning his attention to the hard up gambler. "So wot' ye say, gov? Got room in there for two more?"

With a decisive look and the following reply was their fate decided: "I _do believe_, sir, that we can be of use to one another. Step aboard, gentlemen." And the door was swung open to allow Sam and George access into the old hackney, their new friend moving aside to make room.

* * *

It happened so fast: a sleight of hand, a dagger, a muffled scream…and then it was over.

With nary a warning came the act of brutality that would forever haunt his memory, the image fleeting yet vivid as a firebolt.

George was frozen in position within the confined quarters. Not a single thought beyond self-preservation ran through his mind between his entering the cab and present state of shock, his close proximity yet insufficient to presume him an adequate witness to what transpired; for he had been compelled to turn away just as swiftly, curling himself at the far corner with knees against his chest and eyes shut tight. For once he welcomed the protective cover of darkness (despite the soft glow of the lantern), speechless, petrified, hearing not but his rapid heartbeat in time to the heavy, wheezing breaths of the murderer.

And then the man spoke. "Boy, are you hurt? Did he hurt you?"

Had he heard correctly? For fear that he might not have, George did not answer.

More movement: a slight rustling, more labored breathing, and then violent coughing smothered with a handkerchief…or perhaps a coat sleeve?

Then a noise from outside. A sharp gasp, followed by a loud, blasphemous curse. _The driver_, George thought as the light was suddenly ripped away, turning faint darkness to pitch.

More movement, two voices: one calm, one agitated. George kept still as possible, taking only the shallowest, quietest breaths. To speak, to even open his eyes, would mean certain death. He just knew it. He covered his ears, determined not to hear the exchange, but it was impossible not to catch one or three statements: "It is imperative the dagger not be removed," stood out above all.

George prayed again. _God protect me from the dreaded Blackbeard, dead these hundred years come back from the grave! _

His hands remained firmly pressed to his ears, blocking out the illicit conversation. Silently he sang to himself the first tune that sprang to mind, one his mother had sang to him as a little boy:

_Tommy was a Piper's Son,_

_And fell in love when he was young;_

_But all the tunes that he could play,_

_Was o'er the Hills, and far away…_

More verses followed until finally, at long last was heard Blackbeard's voice addressing him in the kindliest, most assuring manner: "He is covered, young man, and it is quite dark. You will not discern much, should you should feel inclined to look."

But George would not dare.

"Or stay just as you are if you prefer," Blackbeard continued. "Just know you are safe. Pray allow me one more word with Mr. Wallace, and then we'll get you home."

George remained immobile another minute before feeling it safe enough to uncurl his legs and open his eyes. Slowly he turned to see very little but shadows and outlines, making out, just barely, the sitting, leaning, blanketed corpse of Sam Cullen, naught of him exposed but a worn pair of boots.

George whispered his name, making absolutely certain he was dead, which he was. Dead and stiff as wood; but done cleanly, it would seem. Not a visible drop of blood. _It is imperative you not remove the dagger. _But there was no telling where it was imbedded. The neck? The heart? He would never know. Still in shock, all he could do was stare.

Far-away voices, again that of Blackbeard and the driver. Frightened as he was, George's instincts forbade him from fleeing lest he be the next victim.

_We'll get you home_, he had said, but what did that mean? What was home to one able to kill another—a _stranger!—_with such ease? Surely not Summerhill as he had claimed. Good Uncle John and Aunt Georgie would never align themselves with the ghost of a murderous pirate. Would they?

The voices quieted, and then footsteps were heard, followed by the opening of the door. "Where exactly do you live, young man?" asked the fearsome (and oddly frail) pirate leaning upon the door for support, his other hand resting on a walking stick. "Over twenty tenant farms here, I'm told. Which is yours?"

George cleared his throat hoarse from shouting and parched with thirst. "None, sir," he rasped out.

"Well it must be one of them," the spirit argued, and then made a closer inspection of George's wardrobe. "I beg your pardon, sir. I should have known. Dear me, I am faltering fast. You are no farmer's boy. No, indeed. Who is your father?"

"He's dead, sir."

"My condolences; but what I need is a _name_, young man, to find where you belong. Who are you? Louder please, sir."

"George Wickham, sir."

Now it was Blackbeard's turn to be shocked, apparently, for his already pale face went white as salt. "I see," he uttered softly. "What are you…" He suddenly began to heave, and then out came a handkerchief, which he coughed into for several moments. "Never mind," he said after the spell. "You are staying at the great house, I presume?"

"I live there, sir. With my aunt and uncle Darcy."

"Bloody hell," the man murmured under his breath. He then relayed this information to the driver before re-addressing George: "I am coming back inside now, Mr. Wickham. There is no other choice for me. You have my word no harm shall come to you. Do you trust me? Answer honestly."

A pause, and then George shook his head.

Blackbeard smiled. "Very wise. But you have my word, nonetheless." And with much effort, he hoisted himself into the carriage, taking a seat right next to Sam and across from George. "Wallace says it is only a couple of miles down this road."

George said nothing, and did nothing but stare at the dreaded pirate settling comfortably into his seat. He rapped upon the roof, the carriage jerked, and they were on their way.

"Your mouth is cracked as dry mud. Have a drink."

"No!" cried George upon the sudden appearance of another flask. "No rum! No rum!"

"It is only water," he calmly explained. "Belongs to the driver. He says have your fill," then shouting, "Tell him, Wallace!"

"Just water, young sir, from me own kettle! Drink up!"

Prolonged hesitation induced Blackbeard to wave the flask under his own nose, then George's. "Odorless, see? I know not the taste of rum, or any other spirit for that matter. Nothing stronger than Bohea tea. Splash of milk. Two sugars. That is _my_ beverage of choice; but we must get on with what we have, now mustn't we?"

George continued to stare at the offered bottle, truly torn between desperate thirst and the fear of falling prey to the infamous buccaneer.

As if he had read his thoughts, Blackbeard released a deep, weary sigh. "Feel faint, Mr. Wickham? Dizzy? Confused? Splitting headache? Sore kidneys? All symptoms of severe lack of fluids. I have seen it all too many times. But I'll not force you. The decision is yours; I care not." His voice lowered to a whisper. "Best to exercise caution, for it is likely we mean you harm. We could be wandering gypsies, Wallace and I, poisoning obstructive youths at random. Perhaps this is a tasteless, odorless, deadly toxin. I should wager not, were I in your position. Only one way to find out, isn't there?"

Blackbeard uncorked the bottle, reared back his head, and poured a good bit into his open mouth, spilling a few drops into his mass of whiskers. A firm swallow, a refreshed exhale, a hard wipe of the mouth, and then, "No such luck, boy. I am alive. Dash it all!"

With that, George snatched the bottle from the man's grasp, wrapped his lips around it, and then drank the cool, refreshing water to the very last drop. Though nowhere near enough to quench his thirst, he could easily say it was the best drink of his life.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a cold, clear evening, the third without little George.

Elizabeth, red-eyed and weary, sat in the nursery, watching her children sleep, her maternal instincts propelled into an irrational preoccupation with keeping them safe and sequestered while the exhaustive hunt for her nephew continued.

Her husband had been out since dusk with the rest of the searchers, this time with the aid of foxhounds to pick up the boy's scent. The general outlook was bleak as it was universally acknowledged, rather in looks than actual words, that each passing hour pulled him farther out of reach. But if Darcy, upon leaving Elizabeth's side, had even the smallest expectation of failure, he expressed to her no hint of such a feeling. Their farewell had reminded her of that day in Lambton, when Fate materialized his presence mere seconds after she was hit with the dreadful news of Lydia's elopement. Never would she forget his kind words, face fixed in restraint and resolve, then interpreted as a reticent acknowledgement of her family's disgrace, but in actuality a steadfast determination to set things right, and for no viable prospect but the restoration of her tranquility, his own reliant upon her ease of conscience and peace of mind.

That same look would reappear just a few years into their marriage, namely on Lydia's next folly performed within her period of lamentation subsequent to the presumed death of her husband, a time when her passions and whims inevitably reached a level beyond reckless, indeed beyond comprehension. In widowhood she had somehow become an even mightier force of nature, in spite of (perchance because of) all forbiddance, her resentment over that which provided the desired sympathy, but a reviled scarcity of amusement, inducing a conduct best described as _Lydia-like_ in its perversion. Elizabeth, having reached her wits' end, thus saw little recourse but to sanction her removal to Cheapside under the care and authority of the sensible Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, who had vowed to administer the discipline their niece so sorely required. But, alas! their well-meaning aim to hold Lydia in check was doomed to failure, as the best laid plans often are, the promised pleasures of Town proving irresistible to the starry-eyed simpleton of nineteen.

Again Darcy had been compelled to act when—_again!—_she absconded in the name of romance, this time to the unforgiving streets of London, headlong into a perilous jaunt with another charming, but far more sinister scoundrel, this one secretly bent on selling her to the highest bidder. It had driven Darcy to the edge of reason, even sanity, the very notion that his sister-in-law would walk into – not a tryst – but a _hell_ of her own free will, wholly unwitting as before of the misery that awaited her, blind to everything but her own indulgence. Further maddening was in finding himself powerless over her clever captor, Darcy's connection to the criminal underworld insufficient to even tempt the villain with a sizeable payout. Under tremendous threat of violence, he had been forced to retreat from the raucous gambling den, hearing her carefree laughter just one room away. But, disheartened as he was, there was no giving up, no possibility of surrender as he then proceeded to exhaust every accessible resource from outside the venue, his resolve to wrest Lydia out of evil's grip impelling a plea to the devil himself, a foe of foul reputation far wiser to that which the genteel Mr. Darcy could not fathom, much less correlate. For a selfish girl's rescue he would cast aside every principle ever taught, putting his very soul at risk in a desperate appeal to a gambler, a rogue, a suspected murderer, and brother of the good man his sister loved and later wed.

In biblical form, the devil came through in a timely manner, but at an extreme cost as Lydia was dropped like a wounded lily on the Darcys' doorstep, physically sound, but mentally broken. She would never fully recover from the horrific ordeal (the details of which forever repressed), and duly fell her animal spirit from its dizzying height, replaced thereafter with trepidation, excessive caution, and a persistent urge to safeguard the one standing light in too dark and too cruel a world to be understood.

And that light, the final vestige of Lydia's untamed spirit, now stood to be extinguished as well. George had loved his mother, but, as it was with his father, never really knew her, knew so little of the nature quelled primarily for his benefit, and not a whit of the wildness directly accountable for his existence. The omission was recognized by all as a calculated one. In fact, Lydia, on her deathbed, had drawn a promise from Elizabeth; to let the memory of her tempestuous youth remain unbeknownst to little George, to let his father's memory be the ideal every boy deserves, and, above all, to let no harm befall the son she had come to adore above her own yearnings.

Elizabeth, in tearful reflection of her failed promise, had not realized she had fallen into a doze when Lydia's ghostly white image was scattered with the frantic whispering of her name.

"Mrs. Darcy!" the feminine voice repeated. "I've wonderful news! Wake up! Wake up, ma'am!"

It was the forcefulness of the command that drove Elizabeth from her chair, Miss Baxter instantly taking her spot. "I'll sit with them, ma'am. Make haste to the entrance hall! Oh, praise God! Mr. Wickham is come back!"

Elizabeth's gasp nearly woke the children, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle an emotional outburst. An instant later she took to the hall, still dreading the worst despite the report. In full sprint, she cried, "George! George, sweetheart!—Anna!"

She was met by her breathless housekeeper and former lady's maid whom she would ever regard, irrespective of propriety, as more friend than servant. Elizabeth grabbed the woman's reaching hands, her look desperate and hopeful.

"He is alive, ma'am," Anna announced. There were happy tears in her eyes. "Alive and aware."

"Aware…but unwell?" Waiting not for a reply, Elizabeth ran past her through the massive hall, and from thence to the grand staircase, where she descended at a record pace.

She reached the foyer where a good group was gathered, the door wide open but shielded by two footmen. A glimpse of Kitty and Lady Marina was caught amongst the cluster as Elizabeth's searching eyes found the boy as a magnet to metal. There George stood in the middle of the room, arms locked around his auntie Jane's neck as she held him close, raining tender sentiments over the shaken, whimpering youth.

Upon reaching them, Elizabeth fell to her knees, catching her breath, heart near to bursting. "George, darling," she whispered, arm reaching to pet his soiled, scruffy hair, her feelings rather that of thankfulness for his return than alarm over his urchin-like appearance. But there was no inclination to celebrate, not yet. So many questions to be answered, and so little idea of where to begin…or _when_. Certainly not now, when the poor boy was stirred to his core, and in a manner so sorely reminiscent of poor Lydia on the night her own life was changed forever.

George fell quiet, still clinging to his good, pure angel, drawing comfort from her sweet words and protective embrace, his outward appearance revealing but a fraction of the suffering within. _Aware, but most definitely unwell_. Elizabeth could speak from experience to that certainty, and could therefore only observe him with quiet compassion, stunted with heartbreak whilst Jane loved liberally as always. Kitty and Marina soon joined her in fawning over the boy as a doting pair of mothers would their own children after a bad fall. But their show of affection was short-lived, as luckily Anna had the good sense to realize cooing and cossetting was no substitute for the services Dr. Fitzwilliam could provide, and thus snapped into action with her mistress's hearty approval.

While that chore was being tended to, Elizabeth calmed enough to effectively survey the immediate premises. Oddly enough, none in the rescue party were in sight, only her present company of ladies and a few servants, including the butler who, from his station just beyond the front entrance, was heard shouting at the darkness, "Do have patience, sir! Mrs. Darcy must be allowed time with the boy! She will hear your request, I assure you!"

The two footmen cleared a path for Mr. Bridges to enter the hall, his face knit with frustration as he advanced towards her.

Elizabeth rose to her feet, eyes fixed to her approaching manservant, choking back the overwhelming feeling that an ominous presence still hovered above her household, that this happy outcome hardly denoted the end of their troubles, but more likely the opposite.

"Mrs. Darcy," said Bridges, "pray forgive me for not receiving you earlier."

"Hang propriety, Bridges! for I doubt it played any party in my nephew's return, which is all I care about at present."

"Of course, ma'am, and I shall provide you every bit of intelligence I have. Mr. Wickham arrived by hackney approximately five minutes ago. He exited the transport alone, and was let into the manor by footman after a simple knock on the door. I went out to greet the carriage now stationed out front, driver and single male passenger as yet unidentified. The latter, when I explained a party was out searching for the boy, then demanded an immediate and private audience with _you_, Mrs. Darcy, as if he was quite used to giving orders without dispute. He even tried to delay the dispatching of riders to inform the searchers of Mr. Wickham's return, but I refused to accommodate him. He was most displeased."

"Why should this man wish to delay such an order?"

"I cannot tell you, ma'am. Thus far my every inquiry has been met with resistance and ambiguity."

"And the searchers, when might _they_ be expected to return?"

"I know not, unfortunately. Given a pack of hounds and thousands of acres, I dare not venture a guess. Very soon, I hope."

"Rarely have I seen you so agitated, Bridges. Pray speak plainly; for it is clear you find something untoward about this man who returned my nephew."

"I do indeed, ma'am, as I would any man who arrives in the dead of night, unloads a lost child, refuses to give answers, details, or as much as a _name_, demands a word with my mistress _alone_, and desires to suspend the master's knowledge of his own ward's homecoming."

"Fair enough, I suppose." Elizabeth endeavored futilely to look beyond the threshold, the night forbidding any semblance of clarity. "What is your ultimate assessment of this man, Bridges?"

"My best deduction, ma'am, is that he desires to negotiate with you a substantial reward."

"Is that all? Well then, a reward he shall have, Mr. Bridges, if he is indeed our George's rescuer."

"It would _appear_ that he is, ma'am, but appearance is all we have at present. Beyond his impertinent manner, I know not what to make of the picture he presents, that of an unshaven, decrepit drifter with a gentleman's tongue. I cannot but find the contradiction unsettling. Should he be aboveboard, I still could not possibly recommend you meet with him unguarded. Indeed, I would beg you not to, Mrs. Darcy, with all my heart."

"You would do well to listen to him, Lizzy," said Lady Marina, having listened to every word of the exchange. "Appearances are unreliable, and so let us instead review the particulars, shall we? Would a true _rescuer_ be so cryptic, so reluctant to ingratiate himself, to share his story in full, exonerating detail? to even provide a name? Perhaps we might ask little George exactly—"

"No," said Elizabeth with a firm shake of her head. "We shall leave him be."

Both ladies started when George suddenly murmured, "Blackbeard." They turned to him, and Elizabeth repeated the name to confirm that she had heard correctly.

"I forgot to thank him," the boy muttered through chapped lips in a low voice, holding Jane's hand while Kitty checked his pallid forehead for fever. "He must think me terribly rude," he further rejoined. "Will you thank Mr. Blackbeard for me, Aunt Lizzy?"

"Of course I will, dearest," Elizabeth promised just as Dr. Fitzwilliam came jogging into the room. He knelt to the boy, and within three seconds declared him acutely dehydrated and malnourished. Orders for food and water were dispensed as Matthew then gathered him up and took him away, the boy promptly fainting in his arms.

"He will live," declared Matthew over the ladies' cries of concern, the oath repeated until he was up the stairs and out of sight.

Elizabeth was confident enough in her brother-in-law's skills to revert her attention to the matter still left unresolved. "I shall meet with this _Blackbeard_," she affirmed, and then breezed past Bridges towards the uncertain darkness awaiting her beyond the threshold. She stepped out onto the portico with the butler at her side, the soft flickering of his lantern offering a murky view of the conveyance parked at the gravelly expanse below, its driver perched and passenger standing just outside the door.

She descended the steps, eyes straining to make out this muted figure who, from what little detail she could gather, looked every bit of a weather-worn sea farer, though not ostensibly as menacing as the infamous Scourge of the West Indies. Cloaked in dark colors from head to toe, the angular Mr. Blackbeard leaned heavily upon his walking stick, unmoving, but with a look of urgency about him.

"Just the missus, I said!" the visitor snapped at Bridges before addressing Elizabeth in a milder tone, "Your man may view us from atop those steps if it eases you, Mrs. Darcy. While I expect from you no measure of confidence, what I have to say must remain between the three of us alone." He indicated his driver. "At least for now."

"I consent to that, sir," said Elizabeth, turning away briefly to have Bridges go and stand as requested. On his reluctant retreat, she resumed her steps towards this unkempt stranger of audible refinement. "My nephew wished for me to convey to you his gratitude, sir—"

"Come no closer." The sharp command was accompanied by a raised palm and straightforward stare.

She halted as ordered, and between them was maintained about three yards' distance as he hurriedly said, "Time is of the essence, Mrs. Darcy, and I've none of it for pleasantries. I beg you ask no questions, listen carefully, and answer quickly. Against my very judicious instruction"—he paused to throw a glare at Bridges—"a sizable party of men are expected to return ere long. Thus, for the next course of action to succeed, pains must be taken to prevent those men catching sight of this carriage for reasons better left undisclosed. Please, madam—do not speak. Listen closely, consider carefully, and then decide. I am confident you will do what is best, Mrs. Darcy;for I know you to be sturdier than you are delicate."

"You…_know_ me, sir? How…?"

He pressed a finger to his lips to shush her. "Leave it, I beg you. Understand that I claim no heroism. Far from it. I should call _my_ part in the boy's rescue a mixture of happenstance, intuition, and the election of violence to thwart an outcome undesirable to any one of us, least of all your nephew. I know not the circumstances leading to his abduction (as it clearly was!), and of the abductor I know only the name I managed to obtain from the boy." He then said the name, which provoked enough of a reaction for him to add, "This name then means something to you, Mrs. Darcy? A simple yes or no will do."

"Yes," she answered roughly.

He gave a nod, and in one lithe movement then extracted a pocket watch, studied it briefly, and said, "Well, as of three-and-twenty minutes ago, neither the name nor its late bearer need be any concern to you, your household, or any being on earth, should you follow my next instruction."

She took in a sharp breath, as much by the insinuation as the gesture which thrust her into the past, to King Street in London, at a ball held in Almack's Assembly Rooms more than ten years ago. Georgiana's coming out ball! the soiree of the Season which left a pregnant Elizabeth exhausted, ill, and ready to bid the Quality adieu after a snobbish quip made by one of several she-devils in attendance.

Unable to find William, she had raced from the venue for a breath of air, which then led to an encounter with a quirky marquess strangely fixated on his pocket watch. In another blend of happenstance and violence, Elizabeth had been made to witness the nobleman assault another over an unsettled debt, the marquess then calmly and kindly warning her to take herself indoors lest she be locked out, and later timing to the second their latching of the doors and shutting out of his debtor, his expression gleeful as he counted down. _His voice! his expression! that watch! But, no, it could not be! not him! for that man is long dead! as dead as Blackbeard himself!_

She stared at the haggard man before her, so tempted to take another few steps to be certain, to look deeply into his sunken eyes and—

"Mrs. Darcy!" cried Mr. Blackbeard in as severe a tone as she had ever heard. "I repeat there is _no time_, do you understand? Please indicate you are still listening. Are you?"

"Y-yes," she stammered, heart pounding, and in a voice cold and hard as ice, Mr. Blackbeard continued:

"Good. Now tell me, do you feel this _Mr. Cullen_"—he knocked a fist against the door for emphasis—"worth a proper burial? Do you feel him worth the involvement of officials, constables, courts, bureaucracy, expense, anguish, and other vexations sure to accompany a more formal proceeding? or might we dispense with the problem here and now with a mere transaction?"

_Transaction?_ thought Elizabeth, her eyes darting up to the driver gazing down at her intently from his perch. Mr. Blackbeard went on:

"The site is settled on, and the ravine is deep. He will never be found, and never more shall he be spoken of. Life may continue, your nephew, your _family_ left to heal and flourish. All that remains, Mrs. Darcy, is the inducement." A quick glance at the driver. "You may rely on his secrecy, but I implore you be generous. Had I sufficient funds, this whole blessed business would be over with already. However…"

He was abruptly interrupted with an attack of uncontrollable coughing thus compelling the swift removal of a handkerchief to muffle the spell which reddened what little of his face was unobscured. "What say you, Mrs. Darcy?" he rasped when the spell subsided. "You must answer, madam, and well before the return of those who stand to complicate this matter exponentially."

A decision was reached in that instant, Elizabeth flashing the driver a fierce expression. "I am most grateful for the safe conveyance of my nephew, sir, and should like to offer you a gratuity for your services."

The driver tipped his hat to her, and next an order was executed for the hasty procurement of a special reserve known only to Bridges, Anna, Elizabeth, and her husband. Nothing more was said, nor did she bother counting what was in the delivered purse summarily handed off to the silent, patient driver, who took the slightest peek inside before making a face of supreme satisfaction. "Much obliged to ye, m'um. Goodbye." He then whipped his horses into a gallop, the carriage (and Sam Cullen, it would seem) speeding down the torch-lit drive, onward through the black curtain of night, and disappearing forever.

Not that their ordeal was over, of course, a fact made plain mere seconds later, when Blackbeard asked, "Has a doctor been sent for?"

"Sir?" she replied, still shaken by what she had just done. She looked at the man. His back was turned, having followed along with her the hackney's swift departure.

"For the boy," he clarified. "For Mr. Wickham."

"He is being treated as we speak, sir. We are blessed to have a physician currently in residence. Doctor Fitzwilliam. You might remember the gentleman."

She watched his head hang down, briefly. After expelling a deep breath, Mr. Blackbeard turned back around to face her, his cane ostensibly serving as the only thing holding him upright. He labored to speak against increasing (and further crippling) fatigue. "The returning party—certainly your _husband_—shall require a thorough explanation, and so you must rely on your wits to provide them a satisfactory one. Pray is my brother among them? among the party?"

"Lord Russell is indeed among them, sir."

"Good. When you see him, do tell him…tell him…" His eyes rolled back in his head, knees buckling, inducing her to jerk forward to prevent him from collapsing into a heap. She captured him just under the arms as he leaned into her, knees hitting the ground. "Tell John I desire a word," he mumbled half-conscious.

"Sir!" Elizabeth cried, lowering his head gently to the pavement. "Sir, can you hear me? Lord Thornhaugh! _Malcolm!_"

He moaned softly, and then was out completely.


	14. Chapter 14

Miss Baxter took up an iron and stirred the fire forcefully, still vexed at being called away from the nursery in favor of this far less agreeable occupation.

"Report back if he should die or awaken," was the brusque order given before she was left to watch over this coarse-looking man sprawled asleep across the large sofa facing the flickering hearth, Mr. Bridges having employed big Angus to haul his slender build with relative ease into the small parlor.

His mere presence was discomfiting, enough to question the choice of _her_ above scores of lower servants without the standard courtesy of even a vague explanation. However, her gentle argument to Mr. Bridges, that nursing random invalids was hardly a task becoming of or beholden to a governess, was firmly countered with the assertion that their mistress was currently tending to matters far less becoming, well outside her province—"and without a word of protest. You might rather consider the circumstances, Miss Baxter, than quibble over a breach of convention."

And thus her conscience was stirred just to the point of compliance as she endeavored to make the convalescent a little more comfortable, stoking the fire, placing a pillow under his head, and then pouring him a tall glass of water for when (or if) he should need it. After that, she took to observing him, and nervously so, her dearth of details forcing her to rely on the same fractured intuition probably most accountable for Mr. Wickham's disappearance. It was implied from the start, that this man played some role in his precipitous return—but to what extent?

How was it even possible? thought she, for his countenance alone suggested him incapable of having a useful hand in almost anything. With his every breath was heard a low wheeze, his slight but constant movements conveying an inability to relax completely in his corrosive state. Reflexively he clinched his coat tighter as if still seeking warmth, impelling her to fetch a blanket to accompany an already blazing fire. She opened up the wool coverlet and draped it over him, which was apparently unwise; for he gasped and jerked violently, prompting her to jump a foot back to avoid being struck. In horror she watched his body start to convulse as if in the throes of a dreadful nightmare, chest pulsating, his breathing loud and harsh. His eyes shot open, fixed on her for half a second, and then rolled back, lids falling shut. As he continued to tremble and pant, she considered holding his hand as she had held that of many a feverish child, but quickly discarded the notion for fear of another fierce reaction. Short on ideas, she opted to try and soothe him with a lullaby, though she was never one to sing, not even in church. And so she hummed softly, tenderly, feeling rather ridiculous but likewise encouraged as he gradually began to calm, respiration slowing to even pace, blanket clutched in his white-knuckled grip. He muttered something nonsensical, fell back upon the pillow, and then went still and quiet as a plank of wood. The nightmare, it would seem, had passed.

She exhaled with equal parts relief and anxiety. What sort of man was this? So wretched a fellow felt sorely out of place in so fine a manor, so far from any rational person's image of a good Samaritan, that only by virtue of her enduring regard for her employers could she possibly have agreed to this appointment wholly unbefitting a woman of scant frame and musculature as herself. Surely Angus would have been better qualified to take on the likes of him. What if he were an escaped convict? What if he were dangerous, or deranged?

_What an absurd notion!_ she then thought. Of course the Darcys would never allow such a man under the same roof as their children. Indeed he must be harmless…mustn't he? Whatever his connection, either to them or Mr. Wickham, the odds of harshness to heroism certainly appeared in the former's favor. To that feeling, the notion of sitting with him seemed so improper that she could only hope the recent string of dismal events had not driven the Darcys to madness in their bringing this man into their home.

Eventually she took herself to the smaller sofa at the far end of the room, determined not to lose sight of him by falling asleep. Meanwhile, his own slumber deepened to the point of snoring, loudly, which somehow drained from her every drop of fear, as if no man who emits such a silly sound could possibly be perilous. As she restfully reclined, exhaustion ultimately prevailed, giving her leave to catch a few winks, her intended catnap lasting nearly two hours before the four o'clock chime awakened her with a start. Her attention flew to his resting spot, where she found the water glass depleted, walking stick vanished, and the sofa barren. _He was gone!_

She sprang from the settee to make absolutely certain that, indeed, only a crumpled blanket remained where he had been lying just moments before—or so it had seemed. In haste she lighted a candle and quit the room to begin a frantic search down the vast, empty hall, her steps quickening with every thought of this strange man wandering about the home doing God-knows-what. Rounding a corner, she slowed upon sight of a distant glow emanating from…the billiard room? She drew closer, ere long hearing the hard strike of cue against ball then cracked against another to have it drop, upon her reaching the entryway, in a corner pocket.

She watched in shock and awe this suddenly stout individual take position for another strike, his focus sharp and aim precise. "Sir!" she cried out just as the hit was made, the cue-ball sent skittering down a clumsy path to scatter all but the completely missed target.

He barked out a vulgar curse before meeting her narrowed eyes. "You sharked me! I declare foul; the play is nullified," and then moved to reposition the balls for a reshoot.

"On the contrary," she shot back. "Only a distraction caused by an act of God or a non-shooting player—deliberate or otherwise—constitutes interference. Barring a physical disturbance, non-player distractions are a mere discourtesy." On his curious look she added, "My father was quite proficient at billiards."

"As was mine." He bent, aimed, and then cracked the cue ball with expert skill, banking it off the cushion to knock the target straight into the side pocket. "And yet he has never bested _me_. Not once. Not even in my youth." He paused to look her up and down before moving to line up another shot, asking haughtily, "Pray what was your father's profession? barrister or shopkeeper?"

"That is not to the purpose, sir," she replied defensively; for the former presumption had been the correct one, though she would be damned to confirm it to this unsavory chap. "Just what do you suppose gives you the right to take such ill-mannered, unfettered advantage of this manor's amenities?"

"The fact that I never asked to be brought into said_ manor_," he answered just as firmly, cementing her impression that this man of clearly some education was really more difficult than dangerous, and more petulant than vicious. "You might rather call the Darcys' manners into question than my own; for _I_ am but an innocent, a hostage, and until freed shall do just as I please." He made another shot, sinking the next ball with seemingly no effort.

She glared at him, her every worry diminished as annoyance steadily increased. Suddenly her appointment as acting guardian felt less of a wonder. Who else but a practiced disciplinarian could be expected to monitor such flagrant impudence?

"You were declared half-dead upon arrival, sir. We sincerely knew not if you would last the night. Is this how you thank a person for helping to save your life?"

His face distorted into a mawkish look of contrition. "Oh, how you shame me, dear madam! I—I do beg your forgiveness; for I undoubtedly would have perished were it not for your replenishing glass of water, your life-preserving pillow, your spread of wool to shelter my shivering bones—"

"You are forgiven, sir," she sweetly rejoined, piercing his sarcasm like a knife to leave him wholly unsatisfied. "And now I must go and report the happy restoration of your strength, if you will excuse me. Not that I can force you, but I would suggest you perform the rudimentary courtesy of waiting here for someone to formally receive you."

She pivoted towards the exit, only to nearly collide with the master himself, his wearied, disheveled state to that of her new (and undesirable) acquaintance equal by half. She was nervously prompted to dip a curtsey which he scarcely acknowledged, the two men locking eyes almost instantly, staring hard, as if one were waiting for the other to flinch.

She stood frozen, knowing not but to wait while their staring contest endured for some moments. Finally the bushier man spoke first:

"You had better straighten out your governess, Darcy. She is a cheeky one."

She flushed deeply, at both the remark itself and his razor-sharp deduction of her station, replying swiftly to the master, "I truly meant no offense, sir. Pray forgive me, I should not have spoken thusly to the—the—"

"Gentleman," the stranger proudly proclaimed, making a deep bow, "but of far superior birth and distinction. Tell her, Darcy."

_Gentleman!_ Her eyebrows shot up and mouth dropped. "I—I did not know, Mr. Darcy! I was—provided no such intelligence, sir, merely a word of instruction upon—"

"How dare you claim ignorance, madam," sneered this alleged _gentleman_ in a tone to match his pose of affected resplendence. "Is it not read all over my face, my posture, my _person_, that my heart pumps with the noblest of blood, that I am rungs above you, nay, above _all_ that I survey, that my family mingles among monarchs as the—"

"SHUT IT!" snapped Mr. Darcy in an extraordinary fit of temper, pointed finger trembling, his stubbled face overspread with anger and exhaustion.

While she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sharp interjection, from its object came no response but the mere shrugging of his shoulders, followed by the casual recommencing of his billiard game.

The master then surprised Miss Baxter with a request for a private word with her out in the hall. With mounting dread she followed him, bracing herself for a hearty dismissal, only to be addressed in the kindest, gentlest manner.

"My sincerest apologies, Miss Baxter, if that man has by any means offended or insulted you. It was most unfair to throw you into this situation; but my wife, you see, was herself thrown into a rather peculiar position at but a moment's notice, and with scarcely enough time to think and act. Nonetheless, I ask your forgiveness."

"Why of course, sir," she said in all forbearance, feeling a great swell of remorse for her prior disgruntlement. The master duly acknowledged her reply and continued:

"Of his identity and purpose, I cannot…" he shook his head vigorously, "I cannot emphasize enough the delicacy of this new circumstance, nor the sound disruption to me, my family, my _children_ his mere presence yields, and yet—nay, I must cease these paltry attempts at clarification—for I have so little myself! There is a great deal you do not—_cannot_ know, so much that even _I_ do not know, and yet I must ask more of you, Miss Baxter."

His desperate tone paired with his singularly unkempt exterior was truly alarming, and in that moment wished she nothing more than to relieve the Darcys' troubles to whatever degree was in her power. "How may I help, sir?"

The master sighed with relief before answering, "Whatever your methods, Miss Baxter, I deem them to have been effective to some degree, unpleasant as your charge must have been and, well, shall continue to be, should you be agreeable to your new, albeit _temporary_, occupation." He cast a furtive glance inside the billiard room, where the ambiguous stranger was busy racking up for another game. "My wife," he went on, "did well in appointing you. You are so very adept with children, to whom I should more readily compare him than almost any adult. He really is better off with a teacher than a nurse, a feminine presence, but also one of high intellect, certainly of higher virtue, who will challenge him, whom he cannot browbeat or manipulate. And he _will_ try, madam."

"I am not sure I follow, sir," replied she. "Are you proposing that _I_ take charge of _him_?"

"Precisely, madam, though he cannot know that, of course. Whatever his limitations, physical or otherwise, he must always feel in control."

"You are tasking me to govern an ungovernable pupil, sir? and a grown man at that?"

"Essentially."

"And a _gentleman_, sir, which would make him _my_ superior by virtue of his station alone."

"He has no station, Miss Baxter," the master firmly retorted. "Apart from the shell you see, he is _nobody_, a phantom, in all perception if not reality. Per the law of the land, that _gentleman_ no longer exists. And from the look of him…" he paused to clear his suddenly constricted throat. "From the look of him, the truth will very soon match the consensus," (he glanced off, murmuring) "but I may be wrong; perhaps it is not too late, perhaps Matty shall be able to…" (he shook his head again, reverting focus on her) "Forgive me again, madam; and bid me not expand on that response for the time being, for I cannot oblige you. Already I have said too much, and ask of you more faith and trust than what is acceptable, far less deserved."

"I have plenty to spare sir," she said earnestly, "for you and the missus have been extremely good to me, and in my estimation should be placed in the most affable light. Truly I could not have asked for a better situation."

"That is reassuring, Miss Baxter, and I pray you do not eat those words in the near future. He will try your patience to the brink, but let him not faze you with his assertions to superiority. Again, he is nobody. And _has_ nobody."

"What, no one at all, sir? What of the family he spoke of?"

"While indeed of some prominence, what few remain are as dead to him as he is to them."

"How dreadful, sir!" cried she in all compassion. "I should not get on at all without someone in the world to care for me."

Mr. Darcy concurred before relating the following: "There was a manservant at one time—really more of an associate—a rather brilliant fellow who, for years, was deeply devoted to his interests and wellbeing. Until Fate demanded they part ways, I dare say Mr. Reddy was more valued and trusted than any one person in his entire life. But that was ages ago, though I have good reason to believe they reunited some time within the past two years, well before November last. That was when Mr. Reddy's carriage was ambushed on the road in a brutal brigand attack. All in the party were murdered savagely, Mr. Reddy left hanging from a tree. I must presume he knows this. In fact, I am positive he does."

She again expressed her deepest sympathy, and again Mr. Darcy apologized for relating so horrible an incident before he went on: "The children's lessons are to be suspended for the duration of our mutual friend's stay, however long that may be. Beginning now, I mean to grant you three days rest in preparation. You will need it."

"Thank you, sir. That is most generous."

To this he laughed, another wince-inducing impulse never heard from the master till now. "Oh, but this is a thankless task indeed, madam, despite the raise in salary you are to receive for your _efforts_ which, I assure you, none of your peers would covet."

She said proudly, "I am up for most any challenge, sir. Pray what are my specific duties with regards to the gentleman?"

"To bear his company, his conversation, his…eccentricities. You are to monitor his health, his waking activity, and to relate any signs of improvement or…deterioration. I welcome and encourage you to manage him just as you see fit, not unlike your management of the children. As you have faith in us, Miss Baxter, so shall we have in _you_. Of a truth, my expectations are minimal, but I am confident you will do your best to see that he is…well, I am not certain, really. docile? diverted? relatively content?" A shadow passed over his tired face as he then gave a word of caution. "Should you find his behavior particularly troubling, you must report it immediately. Take none of his nonsense, stay on your guard, and—above all—expose to him not a bit of vulnerability, _ever_. Understand?"

"Indeed I do, but…if I may be so bold, Mr. Darcy…"

"You may, Miss Baxter."

"As I've said, I do trust you, sir. And, while disagreeable, I see in that poor, enfeebled man nothing to fear. But was there a time, Mr. Darcy, when you would have called him dangerous?"

He thought hard on this question before answering, "It rather depends on one's definition of the word. On the whole, I must concur with Mrs. Darcy who once asserted, many years ago, that he is a danger to no one with good sense. On that head, I expect you will earn his respect ere long. Speaking of the missus, she shall remain inaccessible for a short while. As you can well imagine, she has been through a good deal, and is excessively tired."

_As are you, sir,_ she almost replied, but then settled with, "Of course, sir."

"Dr. Fitzwilliam has administered a draught that we hope shall keep her rested for a day or two. George, too, is resting comfortably."

Miss Baxter then, in a rare breach of propriety, looked straight into the master's watery eyes and smiled. "I am very happy Mr. Wickham is come home, sir. God bless whatever course was taken to end in his safe return."

He stared for a beat or two, and then nodded soberly. "I feel the same. And now I must insist you retire, Miss Baxter. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to ring for it. I intend to retire myself, but not before I've had a word with…our honored guest."

"Yes, Mr. Darcy. And by what name shall I address him?"

"Ah, good question. George has been calling him Mr. Blackbeard. Let that be his moniker for now."


	15. Chapter 15

After Miss Baxter's departure, Darcy stood in the hall some minutes contemplating the ensuing encounter with a man who shared distinction with a select few of the most disruptive lot to have ever invaded his existence. It was an unkind but irrefutable truth, that at one time or another he had wished away every member of this circle, these intrusive individuals who delivered the sort of turmoil he so rigorously sought to avoid. But in a company comprised also of Wickham, Lydia, his esteemed brother-in-law, and own dearest Elizabeth, none were more discomposing than the man having a nice, leisurely game with himself in the next room.

Marquess Thornhaugh of the illustrious House of Russell had lived as a most notable standout among rakes and rogues belonging to the peerage, his infamy in its heyday impelling scandalmongers to dub him "the Black Sheep of Bedfordshire" for how deeply and consistently he embarrassed his father, the Duke of Bedford, with his open displays of unconscionably ill-bred behavior. Bedford's absolute contempt for his own heir throughout this long and gleeful spree of dissipation was a favorite feature in the sort of columns Darcy would never deign to peruse at the breakfast table, nor were the duke's endeavors to have Thornhaugh cast into Bedlam for the good of his health, and then lawfully renounced for the good of England.

Bedford's aspirations were never to be achieved, however, due to Thornhaugh's alliances formed over several years of observing enough latent corruption among the noble ranks to fill six journals, and possessing enough cleverness and charm to win favor among every rung of Society, from the commonest peasant to the Prince Regent himself.

Thornhaugh's secrets would remain so until the arrest attempt which led to his presumed drowning, down the slippery slope to the journals' whereabouts and straight on to his father's very public disgrace. As one of few names in the diaries not given the benefit of a pseudonym, Bedford's own evils were detrimentally exposed; and upon his ultimate humiliation the duke, unable to bear the low opinion of those with whom he had once enjoyed the utmost respect and reverence, then threw himself into Napoleonic exile. Thusly he had lived for close to ten years now, estranged from Society, his marriage, two daughters, and even his favorite son John, who had wed Georgiana in concurrence with the trial in which Thornhaugh was posthumously cleared of murdering the similarly disreputable Earl of Somerset over an unremitted debt, though speculation, particularly among Bedford's few remaining devotees, endured to this very day.

Good John Russell, caught in the middle of the whole wretched ordeal, had managed it all with absolute dignity partly owing the love and devotion of those he considered his true family, and with Georgie by his side was now perfectly content to let his brother's memory rest with his corpse at the bottom of the Thames, never to trouble him again.

Until now, it would seem.

But the Darcys' own connection to the notorious Black Sheep (or _Blackbeard_, as his nephew decided) had not all to do with Georgiana's ingenuous but inconvenient choice of suitor. Rather, the circumstances which placed such a man directly into their path began well before dear Georgie took a liking to John Russell, circumstances finally ending in tragedy for all parties concerned.

Darcy strove to clear his mind of such thoughts before entering the billiard room, where this living image of memories long suppressed was lining his next shot.

"Care for a game, ol' man?" he said airily.

Darcy ignored the invitation as he found the nearest table to lean upon, gaze levelled at this figure who truly looked as if he had resided at the river bottom all this time before sculling up to the surface for a bit of sport. Just how he'd escaped, where he'd been, and what he'd been doing all this time was the question at the top of his mind and the tip of his tongue, but it was far too soon to delve into so deep a subject at such a moment. As Darcy further considered where to begin, the subject of his intense study ere long became visibly irate. "Did no one ever teach you not to stare?"

The sharp reproof annoyed him just enough to make the following reply: "You might overlook so minor an impertinence in light of a rather severe and most recent occurrence in and around the premises. Perhaps you've heard?"

"No idea," he said dryly.

Gaze unfaltering, Darcy's expression softened into one of concern as he asked, "Were you harmed at all?"

"Do I look harmed?" A shot was made, knocking two balls into adjacent pockets.

"You have certainly looked better."

"I have also looked worse." He bent and cracked another perfect shot, ball banked off the cushion to fall into the side pocket. "Your nephew," he then said, "how long was he unaccounted for?"

"This night was the third."

"Has he been examined?" On Darcy's affirmative response, he added, "Thoroughly?"

Darcy knit his brow—"Thoroughly?"—and was instantly met with a fierce look and a hard SLAM of his stick against the table.

"**Three whole days!" **he shouted furiously.** "Found parched and dazed in a grown man's grasp! I ask again—was the boy examined **_**thoroughly**_**?" **

Darcy winced in horror at the insinuation which had not for an instant crossed his mind, nor anyone else's to his knowledge. "If not, he will be. I shall see to it."

He mumbled something of the "bloody _ton_" and their boundless stupidity before calming enough to resume his game.

On further, enraging contemplation, Darcy was moved to say, with grave sincerity, "You have my lifelong gratitude for ending Cullen's life. May he rot in whatever gorge he was dropped into."

He smirked at this. "And what of your wife's contribution? Have I your gratitude for _that_, as well?"

Darcy's eyes narrowed. "Though my wife may suffer the sting of conscience for some time, her virtue in _my_ eyes remains impeccable, now and forever. None of _your_ influence shall alter that."

"Ah, I see," he chuckled. "'Twas not her own free will that guided your good angel's actions, but rather _my_ devilish influence."

"I deny not her free will and admire her courage all the more, which must be a disappointment to you. You have always taken pleasure in the corruption of others; but, alas! no such gratification is to be had under this roof."

"Indeed? Care to wager that assertion?"

Darcy's temper flared. "Do not trifle with me, Malcolm. This is _my_ home, do you understand? _My_ family. _My_ life."

"From which I am ready to depart directly, now and forever," he snapped back. "Just have my brother come and remove me to his manor, this _Summerhill_, and I shall darken your house no longer," adding with a low growl, "not that I bloody asked to be welcomed here in the first place."

"No," said Darcy.

He paused in mid-play to look at him squarely. "No _what_?"

"John shan't be coming for you. Not today, and not tomorrow."

"He has refused to see me?"

"He has yet to know you are here, and at present believes the established narrative, that George was delivered in cryptic fashion by a standard gig that then stole away inexplicably. Few witnesses were present. Driver has yet to be identified, the descriptions of him regrettably insubstantial and conflicting. My butler swears he had but one leg and a shock of brownish-colored hair, while the footmen claim he had both legs and was red-haired, with very large ears. We are left rather baffled at the moment, but remain hopeful a lead to his whereabouts shall turn up by and by."

Darcy quirked a smile, returned with a severe stare and brusque retort: "Now _you_ are trifling with _me_, Darcy. My request to your missus was made very plainly—"

"My wife acts not in _your_ personal interest, but in what she feels is the correct course at the consequent moment. You might relate to that, _sir_, as you might understand your brother is—as we all are—utterly exhausted! I'll not have him bear the shock or burden of knowing you still live—not _now_. I can barely hold up myself! You know nothing of what we have endured of late!"

"You know nothing of what I know. Apart from my first inkling that something was amiss in the Darcy household, I caught upon arrival a whiff of soot in the air. Seems I missed quite the party. Oh that I may be invited to the next one!"

He paused to cough at length into his shirtsleeve. Darcy observed the guttural spasms in silence, upholding an aloof expression as that same sleeve was used also to wipe his mouth, leaving a stain of red on white linen.

"You _are_ welcome at Pemberley," said Darcy quietly, "whether you wish it or not. Should you be agreeable to staying here, I shall send for John when we are all rested and replenished."

He looked around with marked disinterest. "Here? In _this_ place?"

"What, is my manor not fine enough for you?"

"Not as fine as Woburn."

"That is purely subjective."

"Oh, I don't know. Have you a structure styled in the authentic _Chinoiserie_ design for the mere housing of your finest oriental crockery?"

"I have not."

"Well, there you are. The Russells win. Ah, but wait…no, we have not won at _everything_, have we? You bested me once. Yes, you did. And I do believe I was promised a rematch." He went to a pair of crossed swords mounted upon the wall. Unsheathing one, he took an _en garde_ stance, arm quivering for the sheer weight of the steel. "Have at you!"

Darcy scoffed at the challenge. "You've not the strength to hold pen to paper, far less that steel."

"'I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked,'" he quoted regally, stubbornly willing his spindly arm to hold steady, his face red from the effort and forehead beaded with sweat. A few seconds more and he could not but let the blade drop to the floor. "Bollocks," he muttered, and then shouted at a stone-faced Darcy, "Do not laugh!"

Darcy flatly replied that nothing was found to be humorous, to which he said angrily, "But you do pity me," as he slid the sword back in place. "That much is certain. Beneath that blank stare of yours, I see it."

"I pity only that which I deem to be a hopeless case. Yours does not qualify. There are remedies; and Dr. Fitzwilliam has volunteered his services, should you accept them."

"Your cousin cannot cure me. Indeed there is no cure, according to a succession of _very_ costly physicians."

"Matthew is different, in terms of brilliance at the very top of his profession. What have you to lose?"

"What have _you_ to gain, Darcy?"

Darcy bit back a curse-laden rebuke, well remembering the man's unyielding lack of faith in humanity. _So be it_, he thought, and then coolly replied: "My nephew expressed concern for your welfare, and was assured every attempt would be made to try and help. You did save his life, after all. Do we not owe you a substantial debt?"

"Aye, I suppose you do." His grin spread wide, inducing Darcy to add:

"But that hardly means I must oblige your every quirk and fancy. My home, my rules."

His smile instantly dropped. "I care not for rules."

"Take yourself to Summerhill then. 'Tis a good walk, about a mile west from here with a half-mile incline, not terribly steep, but—"

"Let me finish, Darcy! I care not for rules, _but_ am open to negotiations, should your terms be reasonable."

"I think you will find them so.

"State them, and I shall deliberate."

"Your true identity must remain a secret to virtually everyone: the staff, the children, or any outsiders with whom you may cross paths. Only disaster could possibly come of it."

His expression darkened. "Not that I've shouted it from the rooftops, Darcy, but given my imminent fate, there is little need to protect my identity."

"'Tis for my nephew's protection—not yours! Little George cannot know who you really are."

"Little George? Young Mr. Wickham, you mean. And why can he not? Has the boy not a right to know who killed his father?"

Darcy stepped closer to him in a fit of agitation. "Lieutenant Wickham was killed in the war, do you hear? Fought and died in the peninsula, for King and Country, with bravery and honor!"

With perfect calm he replied, "Ah, now I see. And what of the lad's mother? Does he know her as a crackbrained minx, or Joan of Arc?"

Darcy thrust forward and shoved him hard to the floor, feeling an instant's shock at how effortlessly he went down before shouting, "She is dead, you black-hearted bastard!"

He went still and stared up at him, truly astonished. "When? How?"

"Two years ago. Illness. George has been with us ever since."

His expression changed dramatically, to something resembling grief, as he struggled to get to his feet, refusing Darcy's offer of assistance. "Very well. Your house, your rules. Who am I then?"

"We shall think of something, Mr. Blackbeard. Clearly you must be given a more respectable name."

"And a respectable history full of respectable deeds, what?" (he shook his head sadly) "I beg you, Darcy. Let the falsehoods end here, forever. Let your servants, your friends, family, let your children know me _exactly_ as I am, as you and your missus know me, as your nephew knows me…as a murderer."

"George knows you as his _champion_," Darcy countered. "He says you were the answer to his prayers, sent by God to rescue him."

"Then he is still delirious, and, from what I gather, likely to remain so. But worry not, Darcy. I shall play along with your tales contrived and perpetuated with the best of intentions; for such methods, as we all know, can never go wrong. And your children, when they are grown, shall thank you, revere you, and go on to live as full of wisdom as you are of wishes."

"Spare me your sanctimonious sneering. I know far too much of _your_ exploits to be moved."

"Fair enough point. Have you any more rules for me?"

"That will do for now."

"Then I agree to your terms, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy extended his hand to seal the agreement. At first he moved to take it, but then abruptly changed his mind, stepping farther away instead. "You must rely on my word, as I rely on yours to send for John."

"If it is money you need—"

"It is not," he said firmly, with a look warning him not to presume or inquire about his business. "Delay not too long, Darcy. I shall claw my way uphill to meet with him if I must."

"No need for that. Three days, no more, on my honor. And you will agree to see my cousin?"

"As you say, ol' man, what have I to lose? But once _his_ methods prove ineffective, I shall be on my merry way."

"Have you the means to travel?"

"Who are you, my dead mother?"

"God rest the poor woman who birthed _you_. What of clothes?"

He glanced off rather sheepishly. "I may need a shirt or two. A pair of pants, perhaps."

"Whatever you need. I shall arrange for a fitting directly."

He murmured something resembling a thank you, and then asked, "Have you a bedchamber to spare, perchance? I really don't mind the little parlor or the sofa, if it is all you can furnish—"

"We have a superb assortment of guest quarters."

"In that case, I should like a balcony view facing west and, at your earliest convenience, a tour of your very adequate home."

"I shall arrange it with Miss Baxter."

"Miss Baxter? Ah, the governess! Now _that_ came as a surprise, Darcy. I should have thought you well above the employment of those shrewish old maids. How many have you gone through?"

"She is our first."

"The devil you say! I was on my third by age seven."

"I suppose we have been lucky. Miss Baxter is also to serve as your principal attendant."

"You've appointed your _governess_ to nurse me?"

"Nurse?" Darcy replied innocently. "Why, I had imagined her duties as rather administrative than medicinal, but if you are in need of a nurse, as well—"

"Never mind. Your Miss Baxter will do. She could use a bit of tweaking."

"She will show you as much courtesy and respect you show her. No more, no less. You shall be supplied with a valet, as well."

"That shan't be necessary. I do well enough on my own, appearance-wise."

Darcy raised an eyebrow, "That is plain enough."

"However.." he scratched at his beard. "I should be most obliged to your man for a haircut."

"As you wish. Fleming is an excellent barber."

He peered at Darcy's messy bob of dark curls. "If you say so."

"Well, with that settled, I shall dispense the orders, and then retire. "Shall I have a tray sent to your room?" He declined; Darcy pressed. "A little broth, perhaps? or a crust of bread? Your strength stands no chance at all of being restored unless—"

"I shall have a tray when I ring for one, and shall eat when I am _hungry_." His tone brooked no further argument.

"Very well. Then I bid you good evening…morning…_farewell_, for now. Wait here, if you please. A servant shall come round directly to escort you to your apartment."

"Sleep well, Mr. Darcy," he drawled.

"And you, Lord Thornhaugh. This shall be the last time you are thusly addressed."

Darcy made a short bow which Thornhaugh returned. The former then quit the room, outwardly composed but inwardly fraught with concern on further reflection of the blood coughed up on the latter's sleeve.

He crept into the bedroom quiet as a mouse, only to find Elizabeth wide awake, arms wrapped about her knees, face flushed and fretful. "Dearest…" he said, forwarding to her every drop of disquiet as he went to embrace her. "Why are you up, sweetheart?"

"I had a nightmare."

"What about, darling?"

"I've forgotten most of it, but there was fire, so much fire." She swept tears from her face.

Darcy quickly undressed and joined her in bed, instantly taking her into his arms and holding tight. "Go back to sleep, love," he whispered, "lest you become ill."

"I remember Mary's voice in my dream, upbraiding me, condemning me."

"When has your sister ever approved of anything?"

"But she would not be wrong in this case. For the first time in my life, William, I feel I've committed an egregious sin. What is more frightening is that I don't regret it. Dear God, what does that make me? Am I no different than _him_?"

"Shhhh," he said as he caressed her back with soothing strokes. "Of the souls under this roof, my dear, you needn't fear for your own, I assure you."

"Perhaps I might save my own in helping to save his."

"I think the laudanum has made you feverish. You are in no danger. Sleep for me, darling. There's a good girl."

She closed her eyes, whispering, "Perhaps we are not to meet in the next world, beloved. I may end in purgatory, or even hell. How awful! I should miss you so!"

He shushed her again, continuing his gentle massage up and down her spine until she finally fell asleep in his arms. "Damn him!" he cursed. Holding her close, he slowly drifted off to sleep in solemn prayer: _Whatever your design, dear Lord, please spare my family. If someone is to suffer, let it be me; and if he is truly meant to die, let him die quickly._


	16. Chapter 16

**Note to confused readers: I completely understand, and ALL feedback is very much welcome and appreciated. I also understand if you lose patience and quit the story entirely. It's a story I've had in my head for over a year, and I'm basically pouring out my ideas, trying to form from them a cohesive narrative. Based on your responses, I am re-editing constantly, and intend to work out the kinks before publishing. But in the meantime, do not hesitate to respond critically (just please keep it civil). Anyone who has read my Progression series and is still confused, please let me know.**

**And thanks as always for reading!**

**\- Jodi L. Covey**

* * *

Chapter 16

Ben Darcy had never taken his role as successor more seriously than when tasked to look after his younger siblings throughout the crisis that lay waste to their gardens and nearly claimed their cousin. He would not soon forget Father's command given with his back turned and voice choked with grief, nor his own compound of emotions in the time spent comforting those with the luxury to weep. Each day he assured them a plan was in motion and poised to succeed, and each night returned no news of little George. On the first day, when hope was plentiful, Ben had promised himself that they should never quarrel again, and should henceforth remain in a common state of goodwill and solidarity. On the second, when hope was waning, between Janie's anger with God and Malcolm's vexing abundance of faith, Ben then decided that George should be whipped soundly for causing such turmoil. And on the third, when hope was all but gone, when all three of them had fallen into silent despair, Ben vowed to give George, if alive, a sound thrashing of his own.

It was Mrs. White who had awakened them on the fourth morning with the report that Mr. Wickham had been found and was back home at last, indisposed but speedily recovering. The good news elicited a mixed reaction. While Janie and Malcolm bounced upon their beds in celebration, Ben buried his head beneath the covers and gave himself leave to cry, and from thence were his plans to take a riding crop to the boy discarded.

Though their fears were alleviated, curiosity lingered, not to be satisfied until Father appeared that evening to supply a bit more detail; that George was found and returned by a good man in very bad health, and as a gesture of benevolence and gratitude this man was therefore to remain at Pemberley as their guest, with all the others (save for Uncle Matty and Aunt Kitty) arranged to depart on the morrow. Papa went on to say that George had suffered great trauma but minimal injury, and that his wellbeing, present and future, should be their one and only concern with regards to the whole ordeal. As Papa was a reasonable man, this seemed to Ben and Malcolm a most reasonable position, while their impertinent sister raised dispute in her bid for a richer narrative, well knowing Papa's inclination to bend to her will. Ben was thus impelled to take charge once again, this time to upbraid her for, as usual, the insufferable offense of impertinence. This served to muzzle the girl, but not before she drew a promise from Papa to reveal more in good time.

Another two days passed before they were permitted to pay George a brief visit on their way to dinner, and with the firm reminder that this was a time for appreciation, not explanation. They each swore their compliance, and Mrs. White ushered them into the bedroom Ben hoped he could move back into ere long, his love for the nursery confined to nothing deeper than nostalgia; for he was a child no longer, practically a grown man, and should require his very own quarters just as soon as George grew out of his fears, both of sleeping alone and of the dark.

No sooner had Ben indulged this very agreeable notion, than he absolutely started at the sight of a room that burned a bright gold with its scattering of candles and oil lamps. Even odder was that no one else seemed to notice as Ben made a count in his head, twelve lights in all, which could not just go ignored.

"Good heavens," cried he, "Is this our room, or Pemberley Chapel on Christmas Eve?"

"Mind your manners, Master Ben," whispered the nanny.

"I think it's lovely," said Malcolm, his opinion seconded by Janie as they advanced to the chair set near George's bed, where their smiling mother sat with a book in her lap.

Said Ben, with a glance at the cover, "Robinson Crusoe again?"

"You know it is his favorite." After handing the book over to George, she met the three of them with a warm greeting and a kiss to their cheek. "Just a few minutes, darlings, and then you are to come down for dinner. You are to meet our new guest this evening, and so what is the rule?"

"Our best behavior," chimed the three of them, which earned Mamma's praise before she went away, leaving Mrs. White to observe them from afar as they moved to their cousin's bedside. George tossed the book aside. "I don't love it so much as I used to, but don't tell Aunt Lizzy."

Ben noted that George, half-covered and clad in his nightshirt, appeared not the picture of ill health per his expectations. Of a truth, he looked remarkably well, albeit a trifle pale, his uncombed hair flopped over his forehead and cheeks of a heightened color, likely due to the added warmth of ten superfluous lights. It was a compliment to his constitution, that he should look so well after three days of hardship; and Ben was just about to make this observation when little Malcolm then shouted "George!" and sprang upon the bed to throw his arms around him with unfettered exuberance. Janie was quick to join in the excitement as she clapped her hands together and gushed to their cousin how glad she was to see him, moving to present him with a rather skillful drawing she had made of him. He blushed at the gift, his face a blend of embarrassment and flattery, a reaction Ben took as one more sign (their garden maze brawl another) that George was coming to regard Janie much in the same way he himself regarded Dorothea Bingley. Ben knew his prospect to be the more prudent one, and predicted he might one day be compelled to persuade his cousin not to pursue it; for surely having Janie for a wife could improve no man's wellbeing, let alone George's.

In the next minute, Janie and Malcolm proceeded to joke and laugh as children do, and George obliged their good humor with an inflated version of his own, clearly forcing himself to express that which he did not feel. Ben, ever averse to pretense, could not but observe this display with rising disapproval. As the first born and therefore most conscientious, he would hold himself in reserve, giving the situation the dignity, but most importantly the gravity it deserved. George had not been on holiday after all, and it seemed terribly silly, if not suspect, to act as if things were even better than before he went missing.

Still, Ben Darcy was nothing if not a gentleman, and with due courtesy he welcomed George home, extending his respect to a bow _and_ a handshake (as he could not quite decide the more fitting gesture), only to be teased by Janie for being stodgy. Ben ignored her impudence and changed the subject to that of the flickering flames sprinkled throughout the room, earning himself a sharp rebuke from both his sister and the nanny, who then gave them a two-minute warning. Left with nothing more of interest to talk about, Ben spent the time quietly, and with a heaviness of heart, till Mrs. White declared it time to bid their cousin goodnight.

As they made to leave, Malcolm gave George one last embrace and a kiss to his cheek, thanking God for bringing him back home.

"Oh, but it was not God," George whispered furtively. "It was my guardian angel."

Malcolm's brow shot up in amazement, a stark contrast to the confounded stares of his elder siblings. An exchange of whispers followed:

"Angel!" cried Malcolm. "Like the reverend talks about in church, the ones who guide and protect us!"

Ben hushed the eight-year-old with, "Nonsense! There is no such thing," while Janie took a gentler approach.

"Take him not so literally, lamb chop," said she, then to George, "Do you speak of the man Papa told us about, the ailing man who brought you home to us?"

George nodded. "Mr. Blackbeard. You are to meet him soon. And do not be fooled by his sickly appearance. I can say no more, but you had better be good like you promised Aunt Lizzy, for he punishes the wicked. Severely.

Ben remained dubious. "His name is _Blackbeard_—like the pirate?"

"Not his actual name, of course," replied George, "but close enough to the real thing. Edward Teach was fierce, but fair. Just like my guardian angel."

"Stop calling him that," Ben chided.

"But he is!" George insisted. "He may take a different name, or even a different form. Either way, behave yourselves. Or beware."

"You are serious," said Janie, looking a bit frightened.

"Even if guardian angels were real," Ben argued, "yours sounds not of the purity or forgiveness a true angel is made of."

"Perhaps he is of the fallen," Janie countered, "like Lucifer. Or perhaps a rebel angel of heaven as described in the Book of Revelations."

"And as he deems your conduct agreeable," George added, "so shall it be rewarded."

"Enough!" Ben demanded. "This is absurd!"

"I'll be good, George," swore Malcolm.

Said Janie, "You are always good."

"Children!" snapped Mrs. White, suddenly standing over them. "What are you talking of? Come along at once!"

She turned them away from the bed and towards the exit with the order get themselves to the drawing-room, where their parents and George's "angel" awaited them. Ben glanced back at his cousin on his wait out, reckoning the boy's constitution may not be so sturdy after all.

* * *

Elizabeth slowly paced the drawing-room while Darcy stared pensively into the blazing fireplace, the latter torn over the manner in which the impending introduction should be made, the former over the meeting itself. She had not laid eyes on Thornhaugh since the night he collapsed in her arms, far less tendered a proper welcome, opting rather to reflect on the possible consequences (both in this world and the next) of funding the disposal of a man's murdered corpse. Had Matthew an inkling of her inner turmoil, he might never have administered the draughts which left her in a feverish fog of guilt and fear, full of nightmares and Dante's visions of Hell, herself cast into the biblical lake of fire burning with brimstone.

Her mettle had been pushed to its limit in the subsequent handling of their new guest who, by now, had replaced almost all the others, their respective roles complete with George's return. Only Dr. Fitzwilliam, and only by necessity, was granted the privileged knowledge of his identity in the hours after Thornhaugh was thrown over the shoulder of their largest laborer and stowed away through a secret entrance, the servants entirely complicit in her urgent course of action. She felt the corrosion of her character with every order dispensed to her fiercely devoted staff, with her eventual return to the foyer sans explanation, with Jane's trusting countenance demanding only the assurance of her safety, with Kitty's unquestioning faith in her judgement, and with Marina's pledge of commitment to the friend she loved so well. So large a collection of so steadfast an allegiance brought an added rush of exhilaration, a most disquieting surge of delight in her power and control over others, a power used historically for evil, and so rarely for good. As to which of the two categories her actions fell, there was no clear answer, no uncompromising edict to either assuage or intensify her uncertainties. There was only William, to whom she confessed the whole truth soon after the dispensing of an acceptable narrative to the returning band of searchers.

She had almost hoped for him to condemn her actions as wicked, to definitively declare that she had done wrong, that Thornhaugh must be cast out immediately, and that a penance must then be served for the preservation of her virtue, their marriage, and their family. Such was the Mr. Darcy she fell in love with, the excellent man of high ideals, higher scruples and unyielding integrity, the man who avoided danger, who abhorred indecency, who had suffered his own crisis of conscience and served his own penance for the reward of her affection, and her hand.

But this Mr. Darcy, her husband of twelve years, father of her children, her lover, partner, and closest confidante, would not meet her tacit demands for condemnation. Rather, he looked into her watery eyes, took her into his arms and held tight as ever, reaffirming his ardent love for her, and admitting he surely would have acted no differently under the circumstances. This sentiment upheld through the night, and was repeated with fervor on the morning after his billiard-room conversation with Thornhaugh. As he related the exchange, William declared to her his one regret, that of being denied the pleasure of murdering Cullen himself, voiced so passionately as to leave her with little doubt, and far less remorse.

He had stayed with her in bed all day, holding her, reassuring her, and upon their emergence from a long and deep slumber, loving her well into the afternoon, when they were delivered the happy news in a note from Matthew, that their nephew's sufferings were, as originally diagnosed, relatively mild and markedly eased. Relieved as they were, the couple still felt the extreme heaviness of _his_ presence under their roof, for even a dying Thornhaugh was a very real threat to their family's serenity. The man possessed an unfathomable talent for subversion, for defying all convention with as much enviable courage as contemptible mischief, and the couple had no wish to throw themselves, far less their children, into such upheaval.

And yet, because of him, a villain was dead and their nephew alive. By that virtue the Darcys could not but feel themselves beholden, a benefit he happily and instantly took to milking for all it was worth. On the man's behalf, Miss Baxter delivered to them a rather long list of requests (from the essential to the excessive), each readily fulfilled but the last and least agreeable one: "Dinner with the Darcy family." And while this might seem to the reader both simple and harmless, Pemberley's master and mistress would have preferred almost any other wish – money, properties, the estate itself – over an evening in Lord Thornhaugh's company.

Nonetheless, it too was granted after a long conversation with Matthew and Kitty, the latter most recently inducted into their small circle by association as the former kept no secrets from his wife. Their trepidation with regards to the matter was, oddly enough, at a level nowhere near that of their hosts. There was no accounting for their being so at ease when Matthew held the distinction as the one close relation to have actually witnessed Thornhaugh's deadly dive into the Thames so many years ago, an event buried so deep in the past that its sudden resurfacing with the news of his survival should have been earth-shattering. Instead, the doctor and his wife looked on this development almost as if it was expected, offering not one opinion or another about it, and asking no further details with regards to Thornhaugh's part in the boy's rescue. With that subject abandoned, the Darcys were glad to move on to the next one, that of his symptoms which Matthew pre-diagnosed as consumption, an ailment as volatile as the man himself.

"He could die in a week, a month, or five years hence," said he, "depending on its advancement. Remedies are scarce, and, from my experience, virtually ineffective. A change of climate, dietary alternatives, herbal concoctions—all benign, serving only to prolong the inevitable. This is always difficult to accept, and I imagine he would have sought a second opinion, a third, a fourth; but, however much time and money was spent searching for some miracle cure, I should call a terrible waste."

Darcy sulked at the sheer hopelessness infusing his cousin's speech. "I am surprised indeed to hear this from _you_, Matthew."

The censure induced a timid, albeit heartfelt response from Kitty: "As a doctor's wife, I have come to learn that truth cares not a whit for our hope, sir. Hope is everlasting, but real, actual progress is the work of lifetimes, and Matty has just barely begun! The strides he has helped to make cover not a tenth of the maladies we _hope_—ages from now—to finally be rid of. Lord Thornhaugh, I daresay, flies no higher above that truth than anyone else."

"He's defied death many times," Darcy stubbornly rejoined. "He can do it again."

"There is no _defying_ this ailment," Matthew stressed, "and but a remote chance of impeding its progress. My respected colleagues would have bore it into him from the very start, would have sent him off to a desert coast with the prescription that he enjoy the time he has left, and would not have used his desperation to their own selfish ends. But there are far less reputable_physicians_—a bloody mercenary lot of quacks and buffoons—who would have undoubtedly put him through hell, and for as long as the money lasted. I have seen too many examples of rich and arrogant patients convinced they can buy off the grim reaper, and of the doctors who exploit them. Were he foolish enough to submit to these charlatans, I should be unsurprised if they squeezed from him every penny on—not the hope—but the _promise_ that he could be cured through their poisonous methods of dangerous, painful, and costly experimentation."

"We had assumed he gambled himself into insolvency," said Elizabeth, trading a rueful glance with her husband.

"And he very well might have," said Matthew. "I shall gain a better understanding of his condition and circumstances when I meet with him tomorrow, and shall do all I can for as long as he allows."

Darcy thanked him earnestly and from the heart. "Whatever he needs, Matthew…whatever its cost…"

"I know, Cousin. In the meanwhile, my prescription for _you_, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, is benevolence. Do not shrink from this dinner request, nor his company in general. Let him know your children; let him see their smiles, hear their voices, their laughter, their music. It could only do him good."

"But what of _their_ own good, Matthew?" asked Elizabeth nervously, to which her husband subjoined:

"Surely you see our side of things, Cousin, the dangers of exposing them to the sordid world he represents. We should rather not have their innocence corrupted if it can be avoided."

Matthew waved him off. "You give him too much credit, and yourselves too little. It is _your_ example—not his—they shall follow into maturity, that shall sustain them through life. I've no doubt he will have an effect on them, perchance an unpleasant one, but children are resilient, the poorest among them exposed daily to the evils that man should _never_ have been exposed to, and yet freely adopted. It might well do your children good to see a glimpse of that world, Darcy, to have the smallest sampling of what _we_ had not an inkling of in our youth. What an advantage they shall have! what knowledge!"

Elizabeth raised a dubious eyebrow. "Such a broadness of mind from the man who sent his own children off with the Bingleys."

"That was _my_ doing," said Kitty, then with a willful glance at her husband, "and I don't regret it."

"As you see," said Matthew, "my wife holds a very different opinion on the subject, but my position stands firm. Do what you think is best, but take this to heart: Lord Thornhaugh, were it even his aim to corrupt your children, possesses not a fraction of the power and influence you hold. He knows this as well as you do."

"And should laugh at our disquiet," admitted Darcy on further reflection.

"I am almost prepared to give him that satisfaction," said Elizabeth. After a few more moments of contemplation, the couple said in unison: "Almost."

And thus it was settled, the Fitzwilliams electing to retire early that evening for Matthew's study of the latest materials relating to his new patient's symptoms; for, despite a bleak prognosis, the doctor _was_ hopeful, and always of delivering better results than that of his peers and predecessors.


	17. Chapter 17

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy waited for what felt like ages, though time itself counted but five or so minutes, before Miss Baxter appeared in the drawing-room with the announcement that the gentleman was on his way—"but slowly," said she, "for he has refused both a wheelchair and my offer to assist him down the stairs. I would not have left his side, but he insisted I find something better to do than watch him move from one hallway to the next."

By her tone the Darcys gathered she was not getting on at all with her new occupation, thus confirming every prediction, and thus provoking a joint move to provide solace, beginning with Elizabeth, "Your patience does you a good deal of credit, Miss Baxter," followed quickly by Darcy, "And shall not go unrewarded."

Miss Baxter smiled knowingly. "He is tolerable and certainly not without charm, though I can intuit the difficulties a greener governess could scarcely have borne in his youth. _I_, however, am undaunted, and expect to remain so. Per your counsel, Mr. Darcy, I have taken to regarding him privately as an impudent little boy while tendering all respect and dignity due an esteemed and worldly gentleman. I hope you find this approach agreeable."

"Whatever preserves your wits, Miss Baxter. He has worn everyone else's to the quick."

Asked Elizabeth, "And how went today's fitting?"

"Very well, ma'am. Your excellent Mr. Pinsent came through in supplying him adequate apparel till his new wardrobe is complete. Combined with the hot soak in a mineral bath, I daresay the gentleman's health and spirits are well improved."

"That is good to hear," said Darcy, suppressing a smile. "And the barbering session?"

"Most commendable, sir. After a good two hours, I should argue the moniker of 'Mr. Blackbeard' no longer applies, as you will see for yourself."

"Wonderful," replied Darcy, "and will you reaffirm that he intends _not_ to introduce himself as such, Miss Baxter? that he shall comply with the name and narrative collectively agreed upon?"

"He has neither said nor inferred otherwise, sir, only that, in his own words, 'Conformity is paramount to safety and security.'"

Darcy bent to growl in Elizabeth's ear, "In a mocking tone, no doubt."

Elizabeth squeezed his hand reassuringly before replying, "Anything else to report, Miss Baxter?"

The governess glanced away, sheepishly. "Yes, ma'am. The gentleman says he is very eager to tour the estate grounds, and asks when he might procure use of the horses to do so."

Answered Darcy, "Tell him Hodges is set to take him out tomorrow following his meeting with Dr. Fitzwilliam, provided he takes more than two bites at breakfast."

Miss Baxter glanced down, wringing her hands together. "Er, the gentleman anticipated that answer, sir, and says your attempts to 'nanny' him will not be met favorably."

She was thus regarded with a cold Darcy stare and even colder reply: "I beg you remind him, Miss Baxter, that his absence of discipline is what secured my victory in our fencing match, and then tell him I require _six_ bites of food. Large ones. Is that all?"

"N-No, sir. He also prefers not to be driven, but rather to go out on horseback…for 'optimum accessibility.'"

Darcy crossed his arms tightly. "Oh, does he now?"

"Yes, sir," she said timidly. "He also desires you and the missus to ride out with him, and—" she paused to swallow "—absolutely insists on first pick of your finest stock."

"Hang the man!" Darcy snapped. "Relay _that_, Miss Baxter."

"Dearest," Elizabeth softly censured. "Remember what Matty said, about benevolence? and everything else?"

"I'm the bloody master, not his bloody tour guide," he gritted out. "My finest stock indeed, that incorrigible—!"

He stifled a curse upon hearing the knell of an operatic lyric sung in a rich voice that carried down the hall and into the drawing-room, coaxing Darcy into his default state of utter self-composure and reserve. "There he comes."

Elizabeth, checking her own comportment, then graciously excused Miss Baxter from the room; and on her exit, the couple stood together in tense anticipation, his singing louder as his presence drew closer. She murmured to Darcy, "What about the Matlocks, my dear? Are they ever to know the truth?"

He nodded. "As disclosed in my letters sent to Richard _and_ John just this morning. The next move is theirs."

"And the Bingleys," she more tentatively inquired, "when might they be informed?"

He paused before answering, "My feeling at present is that they should not be."

"Please, William. Charles has every right to know—and how I hate keeping secrets from dear Jane."

"One quandary at a time, my dear. Haven't we enough complications at the moment?"

The singing stopped short, and then he ambled into the room, somewhat exerted but smiling gaily. "Well, Darcys," said he, "your quarters and amenities are indeed praiseworthy, as well as your halls. Dazzling chandeliers, masterful artwork, fashionable furnishings…"

"Comparable to Woburn, we dare hope," said Elizabeth in an attempt at archness he was happy to complement.

"Daring indeed, Mrs. Darcy, but not out of order," he replied with a wink.

The couple gave immediate respect to his improved appearance: hair trimmed close to the scalp for minimal fuss and the assault of whiskers reduced to a well-spruced pair of sideburns meeting a smooth-shaven jaw. One might consider his face handsome with just a pound more flesh to fill it out, but this new look – dapper as it was – rather emphasized his angular features and pallid skin like worn paper wrapped over a skull. His reliance on the cane was heavy as he took measured steps toward the closest chair and plopped himself down. "And where are the little Darcys, pray?" He checked his pocket watch, murmuring, "Running a bit behind."

"They shall be down directly," said Elizabeth. "They were granted a visit with George first, so a small delay was expected."

"Still strict in your adherence to timetables, I see," said Darcy. "I should call _that_ a good mark of self-discipline."

"Would you?" replied he. "I should call it a principled aversion to the squandering of our most precious asset, though your praise is duly noted, sir." Returning the watch, he blurted, "Is Mr. Wickham not to join us then? My request, I hope, was not misinterpreted as a bid to exclude him? He _is_ of the Darcy family after all."

"Oh indeed, sir," said Elizabeth. "It's just…well, with everything George has been

through—"

"Would you call it wise," Darcy firmly interjected, "to have him dine with a man he saw kill another mere days ago?" On Lizzy's pinch to his arm was he thus compelled to make amends. "Forgive me. I mean no offense, but rather to protect my nephew."

"Ah, I see. And your children, too, I suppose?"

"Naturally."

"And thus you may consider certain subjects—such as the time I dined with three men who made their living as resurrectionists—to be _unwelcome_ dinner conversation?"

Elizabeth's eyebrows shot up. "Resurrectionists? Do you mean…?"

"Indeed!" cried Darcy, "I should call anecdotes touting the desecration of corpses and other amoral, unlawful activities _highly_ unwelcome. Furthermore—"

"Why here they come now," he cheerily exclaimed, lifting from his chair. "Places, everyone! Beware the ghost of Thespis as thee plays thy part."

"You remember our agreement," cautioned Darcy just as Mrs. White entered with the row of siblings, Ben quick to apologize for their late arrival.

"Not at all, Son," said Darcy, dismissing the nanny with a slight jerk of his head. "Now then, children. Come and meet our honored guest."

They dutifully stepped forward as part of the usual ritual performed a hundred times before a hundred others, the awestruck Malcolm's audible whispering of "Blackbeard" prompting his father's low but firm, "Nay, young man, and that epithet is not to be uttered in this house henceforward. Understand?"

"Yes, Papa," all three of them replied.

"This gentleman," continued Darcy, "is the reason your cousin is back home safe, and as such is worthy of our warmest hospitality, the utmost civility and highest respect. As George recovers, so shall he too gain a broader perspective; but these things take time. As usual, let us mind convention, keep our manners exemplary, and"—(with a pointed glance)—"our discourse _benign_. Now that we are all clear on this, children, please say hello to—"

"Lord Thornhaugh," he abruptly announced, bowing deeply. "At your service, young lady and gentlemen."

Darcy's look of shock matched that of his progeny as Janie exclaimed, "A Lord! Really!"

Said Malcolm, "You are not an angel then?" whereupon he was promptly shushed by his mortified brother while Thornhaugh merely smiled.

"Hardly, Son," Darcy sneered.

"What kind of Lord?" asked Janie.

"Why a marquess, Miss Darcy," Thornhaugh answered, and then chuckled at her agape expression. "What, have you never met one?"

"Never, sir," she answered truthfully. "Have you met the King?"

"I have indeed and knew him well, back when he was the Prince Regent, or 'Prinny' as I called him. And what is your name, sweetling?"

"Janie Darcy, sir," she answered smilingly, dipping a curtsey, her eager expression urging him to ask:

"Have you something more to say, Miss Janie? Go on then. Don't be shy."

"Oh! Nothing really, my Lord, just…Papa, why on earth did you not tell us George was found by so noble a gentleman! Had you meant to surprise us?"

"Now now, Miss Janie," said Thornhaugh. "Introductions first; the rest can wait. Your elder brother, I see, is a bit perturbed by our flouting of precedence."

"Oh, he always makes a fuss over such things," declared Janie with a dismissive wave.

"Then I had better make amends and quickly, lest I make him even crosser." With a wink at her, he then shifted his attention accordingly. "And your name, young master?"

Ben took another step forward and bowed. "Bennet Richard Fitzwilliam Darcy, my Lord."

"Heavens!" cried Thornhaugh. "Now that is a mouthful to which I can well relate as a fellow successor. What need have we for so many names, Master Bennet?"

"Just Ben, sir—unless, of course, you should prefer the other."

"Oh, I indeed favor your preference, Master Ben, and see you are very proud of your designation. For my part, I've not uttered my full Christian name in more than twenty years, nor do I care to." He then locked eyes with the youngest. "And now we come to you, little fair-haired boy of…seven years?"

"Eight years, my Lord."

"Blast!" he lamented. "I am usually spot on with these things."

"Don't feel bad, sir," replied the boy in all compassion. "It's an easy mistake, and you were very close. My birthday was but two months ago, and my cousins all said I look not a bit older."

Janie nudged him. "Say your name, silly."

"Oh, I forgot! Malcolm Thomas Darcy." A bow. "At your service."

Thornhaugh appeared for a moment stunned before reacting, first with a glance back at Darcy, and then returning to smile down at the cherubic youth. "And a fine name that is, Malcolm. Do you know how you acquired it?"

The boy shook his head no.

"_I_ am named after our Auntie Jane," chimed the girl, "who is the sweetest and prettiest of Mamma's four sisters." A look from her mother induced her to add, "Though I love them all, of course."

"And I was given our mother's family name," Ben proclaimed, "just as Papa was given his."

Said Thornhaugh, "Spoken like a right and proper heir, Master Ben. Good things are expected of you, and shall undoubtedly be delivered." The boy smiled at this. "And what say you, little Malcolm?"

"About what, sir?"

Thornhaugh grinned. "Never mind. I see this subject is of no interest to you. I'd wager your thoughts are on the dinner menu and your empty tummy."

Malcolm lit up. "Nanny says we are having partridge tonight! It's my favorite!"

"Then let us go in now," said Darcy, catching the eye of the approaching butler. "Go along with Bridges, children. We shall join you directly."

Once they were gone, Darcy let out a breath and growled, "I could strangle you here and now."

"Then do it," said Thornhaugh, meeting his ire with a mixture of calm and contempt. "Did you really expect me to go along with your little ruse? 'Tis true I've now put you in an even tighter spot; but your reaction, I daresay, was well worth it. And how could you have asked it of me? The Darcy I knew would never stand for deception, would demand honesty, instill it daily, and live by it faithfully, even at his own expense."

"Have you looked in a bloody mirror? Neither of us are the man we were ten years ago."

"On the contrary, I am _exactly_ now as I was then. You may best me in sport, Darcy, but in all other respects I am better. Not for anyone have I bent a single principle, altered one speck of my integrity—"

"Whereas _I_ would suffer hell for my family and must give my life to _their_ wellbeing, to that of their children and generations beyond. That is where you and I shall ever part ways, shall ever be at odds. What I have spent my life honoring, you have conversely spent _dis_honoring, loving no one and valuing nothing above yourself, and now look where you are: friendless…negated…alive only technically, while as practically dead as Caesar himself."

"William!" cried Elizabeth, touching his sleeve. "That's enough. Now listen, both of you. No real harm has been done. The children's comprehension with regards to the Russell line is constrained, and painstakingly so. They know their uncle John as the second son of a duke, that the marquess is long dead, and that John has rejected—though not formally renounced—his rightful claim to the title. But they know _Thornhaugh_ by neither name nor memory, which has been all but expunged, both publicly and privately." She met the subject's eye. "Perhaps you've yet to know, sir, that every writing, every portrait, every tangible remembrance of you is either suppressed or destroyed—"

"I do know this, madam, and thus saw no harm in introducing myself as such. Hang the Russells! for they mean nothing to me. But I shall cling to what little I have left, Darcy. I shall have my name, the one of _my_ choosing."

"You have forfeited every right to it," Darcy disputed, "and in one twitch of your stupid tongue have now left yourself vulnerable. How am I to protect you now?"

"I don't want your bloody protection!" he barked. "Get that through your iron-thick skull. I have no keeper. I am my own master, will say and do as _I_ see fit, and should sooner be burned alive than badgered."

"But you can be reasoned with," said Elizabeth in a milder tone. "I have seen it with my own eyes."

The protruding vein in his temple then vanished. "Aye, Mrs. Darcy. And what is your proposition?"

"That you have your name, Lord Thornhaugh, if it pleases you, but omit its linkage to the Russell family. I ask that you preserve what small bit of honor that name has left; not for me and mine, but for your brother and _his_. John will come around eventually. He will assume the marquessate, and subsequently the dukedom. Let him carry your family's torch with the decency he was born with, and the respectability he has earned."

"That, Mrs. Darcy, sounds perfectly reasonable, and so I gladly cede to your request without condition."

"Thank you, sir," said she. "And…if you please…for little George's sake—"

"So shall good Lieutenant Wickham's memory be preserved, ma'am. My lips are sealed, though I can hardly bear so romanticized a portrait with much approval. I should call the legacy of our forefathers supremely overrated, if not completely irrelevant. And fathers in general, for that matter."

"Duly noted, sir," replied Darcy without feeling. "And will you also agree to keep your stories of the East End, of your shady encounters, your dealings with dubious characters, with brigand and other such—"

"I leave that to my own discretion," answered Thornhaugh, who then clapped his hands together and cried, "Well! With that settled, let us go in to dinner; for I think I may be as hungry as I've ever been. You may claim a victory this round, Darcy, for restoring my appetite by mere virtue of your annoyance."

"At your service, _my Lord_," grumbled Darcy as the three of them made for the dining hall.

* * *

Dinner went off with neither incident nor irritation as Thornhaugh displayed impeccable manners throughout, his natural gift for conversation rivaled only by his effortless charm which endeared him to the children by the second course. His stories, thankfully never bordering on the unseemly but filled rather with the interest and wonder pervading his world travels, held their rapt attention. With flourish he gave descriptive detail of tropical climates, spectacular scenery, exotic cultures, and most notable figures. He spoke of his younger years dining with "Prinny" and their kinship formed of common principles and shared ideals. He talked of Bengal and his work with the East India Company at the tail end of the great war with Bonaparte, his good fortune in the saltpetre market, and most enthrallingly of a ten-thousand-pound wager won against the former governor-general who had doubted his head for business. His sharp wit and cheeky humor drew frequent laughs from Elizabeth and the children, and by the third course even Darcy was able to un-clinch his reserve as Thornhaugh adhered well to their agreement in keeping all inferences to his bloodline ambiguous. Not that the children raised a whit of concern, nor would they dream, per their teachings, of breaching decorum with a word of doubt directed at one so noble.

By the final course, Thornhaugh had the whole table in jolly good spirits, including himself as trifle was served, declared to be his favorite dessert. But no sooner had he tucked into the top layer, than the butler's sudden appearance cut the remainder of the meal short.

"Lord Russell has arrived, sir," answered he to the master's inquiry.

"Ah, has he now?" said Darcy with a knowing glance at Thornhaugh, who was already rising from the table. "He shall be received presently, Bridges."

"You know our uncle John, my Lord?" blurted Malcolm over a mouthful of dessert.

"Malcolm," Elizabeth softly chided. "Manners."

Thornhaugh took up his cane and began the slow walk out of the room, saying: "Curiosity is the trait of a vigorous intellect, as is a readiness of mind. I'll leave your father, young Malcolm, to explain the connection." And with a sly grin at Darcy he went away, leaving all three siblings with a questioning look directed towards their father.

Darcy met their eyes briefly before tucking back into his dessert. "Whatever their connection," he said casually, "it is distant. And whatever their business, it is none of ours."


	18. Chapter 18

While the Darcy children reveled in the beguiling presence of their highest born acquaintance, George reacquainted himself with the perilous exploits of Robinson Crusoe, and with the titular hero's every run-in with disaster could not but side with the father who was passionately opposed to his son's reckless passion for adventure. In no uncertain terms, Crusoe was ordered—_demanded_—to give up his dreams of sailing the high seas for the study of law, for a good, respectable living, and for the promises of lifelong financial and physical comfort.

Thought George, _Was this demand really so unreasonable, given the consequences that ensued?_

There was a time when he was thoroughly entranced with the thrilling (and violent) tales of worldly adventurers. But he was a child then, and a silly one. Now it now felt offensively foolish, that so harsh a fate was favored over the wisdom of the father's warnings, that Romance won over welfare, all the hero's wealth by the end of the novel acquired at too high a cost, nearly of his life. Crusoe himself was a lie, a contrivance, but the world he inhabited was not, and in fact too cruel, George realized, for a man to brave beyond the pages of a novel. It was a lesson learned by his own father the hard way, and at the ultimate price. By the time George came to the chapter detailing Crusoe's encounters with the Carib cannibals, his mind was firmly set on learning estate management, that of Longbourn in particular, just as soon as possible. He would announce this plan to the whole family as part of making amends for his past defiance, which should please Ben and his uncle to no end.

When George's eyelids grew heavy, he closed the book and rang for Dr. Fitzwilliam to come and sit with him until he fell asleep. As per the routine for the past two nights, the doctor arrived, blew out all but three candles, and then reclined on the opposite bed with a book of his own. George closed his eyes, and slowly drifted away, the trio of twinkling lights supplanted by dreary darkness and the disturbing reminder of that dank, drafty room in the old Beedle farmhouse. Gradually the images intensified, affecting other senses, as well. No longer did he feel a soft mattress beneath him, but a hard, rough floor, his clean nightshirt now a filthy frock coat, his feet cold and mouth parched. Obscurity. Silence. Shadows. The flash of a dagger, a muffled scream—he must flee!

George ran fast, chasing a distant light moving farther and farther away. Only in waking was he able to catch up, his breathing ragged as his eyes found the clock showing he had been out for less than an hour.

Within that time the doctor had fallen asleep, book lying on his chest as it rose up and down in deep, peaceful slumber. How enviable! and how George longed to have his brain wiped clear, leaving only the fondest recollections, from his very first in life to the morning spent fetching carrots with Janie. If only he could brush off the whole incident as a figment of his imagination, forcefully conscious to the fact he was never betrayed, and never really in danger. This mental trick he practiced on the regular, only to fall short upon one more glance at his wrist still bearing the discolored mark of Sam's iron grip.

His own mind seemed determined to haunt him, to wander constantly to that terrifying event and dwell on how, were it not for…_him_, he might still be at the mercy of Sam Cullen and his gang of thieves still at large, hiding out, likely wondering what became of their cohort. Might they come back for him? Might they be waiting for him to venture out of doors just to snatch him up and take him away again?

_No_, George determined with the smallest shadow of doubt. There was no need to fear, not while _he_ was in residence.

"Just know you are safe," he had said before taking him straight home under no condition, no promise of reward or fear of repercussion for the capital crime just committed. George recalled how the blow had been struck – not in a fit of rage or madness – but rather impassively, as if the act were scheduled for that moment, as if he had full knowledge of Sam's design and was dispatched to foil it. What man of this earth could have performed such an act on a mere suspicion of intent? Surely he had to be otherworldly, one among the guardians so often preached about in church, sent to lend his strength and protection in the aftermath of treachery and destruction, his human expressions and weak frame a mere pretense, a _ruse_, so as not to betray his heavenly status, and to garner the sympathy required to be taken in for an indefinite period.

As the clock struck nine, George remained absorbed in these rather comforting thoughts. He wondered about the dinner, of what was being said and his cousins' impression of him. Was Ben now as open to George's (admittedly farfetched) notions as Janie and Malcolm? Or had _he_ convinced them he was as mortal as any other, merely a destitute and sickly traveler who—to his own possible detriment—was compelled to thwart villainy in his snatching of a strange boy from evil's grip? In George's estimation, the more grounded concept seemed every bit as implausible as the divine one.

Fraught with curiosity, George gave up on sleep and climbed out of bed, careful not to wake the doctor as he crept past, quite determined to catch a glimpse of God's minister, if for no other reason than to gain a better notion of his purpose, which must be far greater than he or the Darcys could ever fathom.

He opened the door quietly, making a brief survey of the empty hall before beginning the trek down a lit corridor leading ultimately to the grand staircase, a faint, far-away echo of voices hastening his heartrate as he drew closer to the brass banister running down a great number of carpeted stairs. In a slow descent, George stopped just within view of the reception hall below, where the crystal chandelier gleamed above two men conversing alone at an unchecked volume, one instantly recognized as his uncle John, and the other…

_It must be him!_ thought George upon sight of the familiar walking stick serving more as a crutch. He was standing motionless, his hard expression fixed on a more agitated Uncle John. He now looked as well as he spoke, donning a much finer wardrobe, beard shaven away and hair sharply tapered on all sides. This new look should be counted as an altered form, though not by much as he still looked thin and frail as a reed.

George crouched down, taking hold of two balusters, his slight, shadowed figure undetected by either of them, engaged as they were in what sounded like an impassioned altercation.

_Then he had come for the Russells, too, _thought George. _Just as he told Sam._

Now _that_ was perplexing; for what protection had this guardian to offer a duke's son, who was perhaps as content and free of troubles as any man could be? A Lord, rich in every respect, living high on a hilltop in a lavish manor with a wife as accomplished as she was pretty, two healthy children (including an heir!), and no perceivable ills to be battled. No damage to repair or wrongs to be righted. Curious, indeed.

George then focused his attention to what was actually being said, catching the end of a firm retort made to Lord Russell.

"—received confirmation the old man was in fact still living, else I would have stayed in America." (His voice—like a rising storm—rang quite clearly in George's ears.) "And let us leave it at that for the time being. The last ten years—whether of actions or locations—are of far lesser importance; for they are in the past. Here and now is all that matters."

"Do not presume to tell _me_ what matters," Uncle John replied heatedly (Never had George seen him so flustered!). "And just how mad are you to suppose you can pop out of obscurity, disrupt my life, and behave as if you are still in a position to make demands—"

"My one _demand_ is the answering of a question simple as breath, a mild indulgence best sought in person than by correspondence, and that only you can satisfy."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Evelyn's own words, confirmed by her two witless spawn."

"You were in Bedfordshire? When?"

"Do not insult my intelligence by feigning ignorance. I saw it in your countenance immediately, that you've been expecting this encounter; hence you must have received warning of my visit and my pursuit. I shall give you another chance to be honest."

"Or what? You will kill me? Lord knows you've grown very adept at it."

A slight twitch of his brow accompanied an even reply. "Why the devil would I kill _you_, John? Am I a monster? I should have thought you of all people knew me better than that."

"I have never known you. No one has. You are impossible to know. It is always games with you, this being your cruelest yet."

"You know less than nothing of cruelty. Hear me, I would never"—the words were coughed out, then stifled beneath a handkerchief before he tried again—"would never harm you, nor would I ever, _ever_ lie to you."

Lord Russell sighed. "I did lie. Forgive me."

"Forgiven. Understandable. And forgive my…anxiousness. I will slow down, and talk of what you may _not_ know. Six weeks ago, I paid our dear stepmother a visit, and was lucky to find Hannah and Marilyn still in residence, as yet unshackled to my surprise. As I recall, Bedford had hoped to marry them off by their seventeenth birthday."

"_I_ am surprised they actually received you."

"Not at first, and not easily, but I finally managed to negotiate for ten minutes of their time. Never mind how."

"I've an idea. Your usual methods of intimidation—both towards our mother and our sisters."

"Do not dare call that woman our mother! And they were never sisters to me, not even by half—only _his_ daughters. As for intimidation, mine is only ever reserved for robbers and welchers—not the wenches of Woburn Abbey. I have other means of persuasion for the likes of that lot."

"Aye, you were always very persuasive. And so to be rid of you, they sent you to me."

"That was my initial thought, but a little more prodding convinced me that your direction was the only viable one. You are the favorite, the last hope, the ever obedient one, the one from whom he could never be estranged. I see you are reluctant, and concede my absence of leverage—"

"_Leverage?_ Must everything be an arbitration? God, just look at you! Two years back in England and not a word—reduced to _this_? Tell me how!"

He glanced down, shrugging his shoulders. "I have gambled it all, John. Every penny, all that I own. There is nothing for me to offer in return but stories, which I have in abundance. Oblige me, and so help me God, I shall recount to you anything and everything. I lost my travelogue, but shall write another—a novel if you like—beginning this very night. Just answer me, John, and answer truthfully: Where is Bedford?"

Though he tried to listen, George was failing to grasp all the particulars of their knotty exchange, his thoughts rather preoccupied with his embarrassment at having spread to his cousins such preposterous notions of his rescuer's divinity, even though the truth seemed a miracle in and of itself! He struggled to come to terms with the revelation, wishing he had paid better attention when Ben talked of the strange distortion in the Russell line pending matters with the duke and his heir, having found the whole business too complicated, inconsequential, and therefore uninteresting. He understood only that Uncle John had shocked the family with his decision not to ascend; for the station and all its rewards held no charm for him, a reasoning which still felt to George like utter madness. What a man could not do with such a title, such prominence, such wealth! as a duke! as master of the finest properties in England!

_As this man could have been!_

Can it be true? Was he really Uncle John's brother? _The heir to Bedfordshire?_ How enthralling!

George continued listening to the best of his ability, daring to creep even closer in the process.

"I cannot tell you," said Lord Russell with genuine disappointment. "As you correctly deduced, I did receive word from Evelyn, but her letter was not read until after our return from the continent, just ten days ago."

"How lovely," he sneered, "that the two of you are on such friendly terms."

"Hardly. Her note covered a mere four lines, and for the mere reporting of that one bit of intelligence. I received nothing from our—_my_ half-sisters, and have neither seen nor spoken to the ladies or Papa for years, not since the trial."

"Why went you abroad?"

"To go looking for _him_, if you must know. His letters stopped coming and I was concerned. Scoff all you like! For better or worse, he is still our father. It was an exhaustive search covering three months and thousands of miles, but regrettably unsuccessful. I think he might have quit Europe entirely, sailed away in search of the scarce few still willing to receive him. He has friends in India, one or two in Penang. The Crown still hears from him, so they say, but beyond that are mute on the subject."

"And their patience with you surely growing thinner by the year. Were _you_ more accommodating, so would they be."

"I'll not stand for their tactics or their terms. Let them strip me of everything for all I care. I've no need of it."

"Stunning! It appears ol' Darcy was correct. We are not the men we were ten years ago."

"At any rate, I doubt even the King himself knows where he is."

"Were he dead, you would have heard by now, I should think."

"Precisely. He simply does not wish to be found."

"I could not give a damn what he wishes. Surely his letters gave _some_ indication of where he is, or where he went."

"I shall be happy to relinquish them to you if it is enough to fulfill my part in this mission of yours. But do you really feel it worth your time and energy? Seems you have precious little of either to spare."

"Hence my resolve, Brother."

"Meaning what?"

"Never mind. Just send over the letters if you would be so kind."

"They have proven no help to me. How are you any different?"

"I am cleverer, that's how. Pray will you send them tomorrow?" After some time, Lord Russell finally agreed, answered with a curt, "Thank you, sir. Name your cost to myself in a note and expect a prompt and full remittance. Thus concludes our business and my _disruption_. I'll importune you no longer. Good luck, good life, and goodbye."

"Now hold on! I never meant to suggest…that is, I am not unhappy to see you, and truly am thrilled that Matthew has agreed to take you on as a patient. There is no finer physician, and he'll work himself ragged. I must have faith you will show the Darcys due respect and treat their generosity with the gratitude it deserves. You are, to an immense degree, more _my_ responsibility than theirs, one I should insist on claiming, but…"

"You need not explain."

"I _would_ claim it, Brother, but I…truly, you really are better off here than Summerhill."

"Yes, truly, really—far better off. Best for everyone."

"Yes, well…I should be going now."

"So soon? Ah, well. For the best, I am sure. Do give my love to the family."

"I shall call on you again shortly."

"Wonderful! Bring the missus next time—and the children! Let them come and meet their uncle Thorny. We'll drink tea, have a laugh, play shuttlecock!" His beaming smile dropped, replaced with a cold glare. "Goodnight, Brother."

Uncle John met his gaze, but briefly, before turning away, making for the exit. On the firm shutting of the door, _he_—Bedfordshire's true heir—stared at it a long spell, coughed once or twice into the sleeve of his topcoat, and then blurted out, "All clear, Mr. Wickham," then turning towards the staircase, "Come on down now. Into the light, please."

George stood in speechless shock at having been found out, and from the start it would seem. Were men of his rank versed in heroics, wit _and_ wizardry? He descended as instructed, but warily, and just barely into the sphere of light emitted from the chandelier. To his further surprise, the man did not appear cross at all, but highly amused as he narrowed the distance between them, stopping at the foot of the stairs to peer up at where George now sat at a good, safe distance above him.

Heavily he rested one elbow upon the spiraling end of the banister, the other hand gripping his cane. "Well, Mr. Wickham?"

George muttered faintly, "Well, sir?"

"_Sir?_ Now is that how you address a marquess, young man?"

"S-Sorry…my Lord."

"There. _Now_ you may call me 'Sir' if you like, or 'your Lordship' when and if the mood should strike you. Pity it has taken us this long to be formally introduced to one another, and rather diverting that it is done at so _in_formal a moment. Perhaps all of our encounters, Mr. Wickham, are destined to begin just as the first: rather awkwardly. I hope I am wrong, of course."

His smile was friendlier as he then stated his actual name, or _title_ as it were, to which George repeated with uncertainty, "Thorn-awe?"

"Thornhaugh," he said slowly, clearly and distinctly. "Try again. The softest 'h' in the middle, throat fully relaxed on the second syllable." When George succeeded on the next go, his smile extended. "Well done. And you are also to be congratulated for now holding a particular advantage over your three Darcy cousins, I'd wager for the first time ever."

"Sir?"

"An _advantage_, Mr. Wickham, but I'll not say what it is. Better you work that out for yourself. As a gambler, I am constantly measuring the cleverness of others. Mr. Cullen, for example: an amateur, a dullard, but potentially lethal by virtue of sheer desperation. Took mere seconds to know what he was about, the next spent in outflanking him. It is a skill—among others—which takes years to perfect."

George looked at him, confounded. "A gambler, sir? _And_ a marquess?"

"Can a man not be many things at once?"

"Of course, sir. Sorry, sir."

"At ease, young man. You'll not be censured for raising dispute, not by me." He then took a step back, exhibiting his wardrobe. "Well, Mr. Wickham, how do I look? Less menacing, I hope."

"Er…yes, sir. And less…hairy, sir."

His Lordship chuckled. "Less the marauder, and more the marquess. Your uncle has been most charitable. Some are born, whether in poverty or luxury, as casualties of circumstance. They dress the part they reckon themselves born and forever destined to play. A gambler, however, decides his own destiny, his look therefore mirroring his success, or lack thereof. But I expect this veneer to in no way improve anyone's perception of me, least of all yours; and I think it only fair that the other children know me not as well as you do. You have well earned that privilege, and I fault you not a whit for sneaking."

"Miss Baxter says it is wrong to spy."

"As any governess would impart to her pupil. That is her role after all, to encourage only whatever knowledge is sanctioned. And I see a difference between spying and sneaking. I was a stealthy lad myself. There is more knowledge—better knowledge—to be gained by such means than a formal education." His grin faded into a more earnest expression as he asked, "Is your health improved?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the nightmares. Are they decreased?"

George flushed deeply, impressed as he was unnerved. Did nothing escape this man's notice? "Sir?"

"Warm milk helps," he said knowingly. "And activity, whether of mind or body, ideally of both. Your time is best spent out of doors."

"Dr. Fitzwilliam says I might stay in bed through the week, sir."

"Whatever for? No good will come from lying about for days on end."

"The doctor says not, that I must"—he strained to remember— "'rest and reflect, in order to re-energize.'"

"Remarkable remedy, in theory. I speak rather from experience than rhythmic resonance. Pray what is your favorite diversion in the whole world?"

George perked up at the question. "Riding, sir."

"Ah," he smiled again, "I am fond of the sport myself, and as well find companionship most beneficial. No better cure for bad dreams than good company. In fact, we've a merry outing planned for tomorrow, your guardians and I. Tell me, is Pemberley _really_ as fine as they say?"

"Oh indeed, my Lord! The finest in the world!"

He harrumphed. "I am still fairly confident I've seen better, though I'm not sure even Darcy himself shall make the best tour guide. He is always so stiff in his manner of speaking. Mrs. Darcy can be relied upon to bring out that better part of him, but…I say, might _you_ be persuaded to join us, Mr. Wickham? to add a youthful charm to the occasion?"

"Me, sir?"

"Of course!"

"And my cousins, too?"

"Certainly! An excellent idea, sir! I shall make the arrangements with your uncle directly."

"But…what if Uncle does not approve?"

"Then I welcome the challenge, as my powers of persuasion are as yet unmatched."

"Oh! Uncle John said that, too. I remember that part!"

"And do not forget it, young man. I've moved the stubbornest of mules, Mr. Darcy among them. We go back some years, he and I. Now you go on back upstairs, get plenty of rest. Think only of tomorrow. Sunshine, birdsong, fresh air, and the finest mount you can manage."

George dared not argue, nor had he the chance as the man then promptly turned and walked away, calling "Goodnight, Mr. Wickham" on his way out.

Mighty steeds of all varieties galloped through George's mind as he headed back to his room, all-a-gog at the thought of riding again, and resolved to prove—both to his relations _and_ the marquess—that he was vastly superior to his former, naughtier self in every regard, including the equestrian.

Dr. Fitzwilliam was still asleep when he crept into the bedroom, just able to find his way back into bed with the aid of the three dying candles. He crawled beneath the covers, utterly exhausted but too excited to sleep. Ten or so minutes passed before three knocks at the door roused the doctor, who rose drowsily to answer as George shot up, quite certain (and rather fearful) it was someone come to report he had stolen out. A few whispers later the door was shut, the doctor turning to George with a tall glass of milk in his hand and befuddled look on his face.

"You rang for this?" the doctor asked.

George smiled.


	19. Chapter 19

Elizabeth sat quietly at the breakfast table next to the man with whom this time was generally shared, almost always to discuss business or domestic affairs, the day's schedule, or merely to delight in each other's company. This morning, however, found her husband immersed in contemplation, as if he were working out a complicated but crucial mathematical equation between absent sips of coffee and bites of food.

She well recognized her William's behavior as that which possessed him in times of unrest suchlike the tempestuous events of the past week, and all the possible effects he had not the ability to foresee. There was naught to him so unnerving as a rupture in the status quo, and no living embodiment of a tempest like the one now residing under their roof.

The children had gone to bed last night talking incessantly of the marquess, moreover of the divine injustice of so pleasant a gentleman to be stricken with infirmity. On and on they went, decreeing his society ("so lively and humorful!") superior to that of just about any guest ever to visit. They had awaited his return to the dining hall with eagerness, and then lit up at his abruptly announced plan to include them—_all of them!_—in tomorrow's outing not even properly discussed with the master. William, as attentive to decorum as George's wellbeing, forced himself to ignore the pleading looks of his progeny as he grudgingly listened to Thornhaugh's sound and solid argument, expert as any barrister, in which his fresh and spontaneous brush with a sleepless George was also related. He was almost poetic in his presentation, his fine words and expressive allusion to their nephew's disquiet moving Elizabeth almost to tears while her husband sat stone-faced as ever. When the marquess had done, the two men stared from across the table like rivaling chess players until William, with a shrug, finally ceded to his guest, and then had to smile when the affirmative response—pending Dr. Fitzwilliam's blessing, of course—drew a great swell of cheer from the whole table.

Later in their bedroom, Elizabeth could not help teasing William about bending to Thornhaugh's will, that he knew better than to be swayed by his silver tongue, and that his arts and allurement must have weakened him in the moment. When her archness was usually met with an equally playful rejoinder, Elizabeth was, in this instance, surprised to hear from him a rather earnest speech on the notable increase in Thornhaugh's appetite throughout each course, and his finishing of the dessert. "And he coughed not once," Darcy further observed, "not amid the telling of many a long-winded anecdote, not even in laughter, as if his ailment was forgotten entirely."

Elizabeth was astonished at just how closely he had paid attention, but only at first, taking but a moment's consideration to then wrap her arms about his neck and kiss him ardently, answering his curiosity with gratitude to the heavens for gifting her such a caring, wonderful husband.

His happy acceptance of her affection did not, however, prevent him from correcting her "misperceptions" in the next moment, contending in a kind but firm manner that his attention to details were neither caring nor wonderful, merely a facet of his studious nature in observance of Matthew's earlier counsel as it pertained to the healthful benefits of good company. She hardly believed him, nor did she care, and instead of prolonging their argument merely kissed him again with the whispered command that he take her to bed.

Their silent breakfast, after a good quarter of an hour, was finally disrupted when William said, "I have been thinking, dearest. Suppose we were to invite him to dine with us every evening for the duration."

Elizabeth quirked a smile. "Who, Thornhaugh?"

"No, the Archbishop of Canterbury," he quipped, eliciting a chuckle before she replied:

"Well, the children certainly have taken a shine to him."

"And he to them, I believe. Not that he should dare admit it."

"But would he accept the invitation? And if so, do you suppose his amiability shall endure? Would that he were not so volatile, that we could rely upon a constancy of temper the children naturally expect from one of his rank."

"A fair point among others weighing on my mind."

"And the results of your analysis?"

His brow furrowed. "Inconclusive."

"I see. Then are you suggesting we throw caution to the winds, my love? Thornhaugh himself, as I recall, talked of reasonable risks."

William looked at her, visibly disturbed by such phrasing. "I should hardly call him an expert on the subject."

"Nor us."

His gaze softened. "Still?" then reaching out to her, "Have not we acquired the wisdom to determine what risks are reasonable?"

She smiled, her clasping hand tightening around his. "Perhaps we are now thinking too much, my dear, in compensation for thinking too little before."

"Then again, perhaps not."

At this moment Matthew entered, quite oblivious to their intimate moment as he bade an affable but groggy good morning, making directly for the coffee on the sideboard. "Kitty's gone to visit with Jane and the children, which is just as well, I suppose. I am a right bore to be around when preoccupied with work."

Said Darcy, "Fill your plate, Matthew. It won't do to meet with Thornhaugh on an empty stomach."

"Oh, but I have seen him already."

The couple reacted, each with astonishment. "So early?" said Elizabeth.

"He knocked at around seven o'clock, waking us both, quite eager to get on with it. Kitty was not pleased."

Darcy groaned, bringing his cup down with a loud clank against the saucer. "Appalling! Inexcusable!"

Matthew was far less perturbed. "Between the two of them he raised the greater fuss, so I decided it easier just to oblige him." He then joined the couple at the table with a generous plate, grinning at Darcy's anger. "Ease your nerves, Cousin. He was not overly demanding, merely anxious, and I commiserate with his inability to adhere to a conventional sleep schedule. The examination did not take long, and he was congenial throughout. For the most part."

The couple looked at Matthew to continue, but his mind seemed more engaged with the choice of preserves. After some moments, Darcy reclaimed his attention with a sharp, _"And?"_

"And…I am sorry, but there is never an easy way to announce a negative prognosis. My suspicions are confirmed."

Darcy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Could you possibly be mistaken, Matty?"

"No, Cousin. But—"

"Then off to Summerhill with him!" Darcy snapped. "He is John's problem to contend with! So should he have been from the start! I'll not invite a man to fall dead on my premises, bringing distress upon this household, upon _my_ children!"

"Dearest, be still," whispered Elizabeth with another tight squeeze to his hand. "I think Matthew had more to say."

"Indeed I do. That his condition is at an advanced enough stage to merit alarm should not thrust you into immediate discouragement."

Said Elizabeth, "So you are saying there is a chance?"

"In relative terms, yes; for I see in him a fierce will to live, which is a more potent medicine than you can imagine. Nurture that spirit, and he might well endure for years hence. It is an incredible machine, the human body, the mind like a journeyman at the helm. He battles hard, but once the will crumbles, so shall the rest follow suit as a house of cards. I advise you not send him away, Darcy, unless you are truly indifferent to his fate."

Darcy made no reply, having fallen back into silent and solemn deliberation, thus impelling Elizabeth to take charge. "Thornhaugh will stay," said she. "Frankly I am less concerned about his spirit, and more so of his effect on others. He is fit to endure, but can we endure _him_?"

Replied William, gravely, "We can do no less than try, my dear."

Matthew concurred. "And _he_ tries with concerted effort to be obliging, despite odd moments of extreme displeasure as when I had his soiled and bloodied handkerchiefs thrown into the fire. I stressed to him their replacement is essential, but…"

"The monogram," Darcy speculated. "Tell him I'll see that the embroidery is identical, but until the order is fulfilled he shall just have to bear the plain and simple variety. Would two dozen be enough, do you think?"

Elizabeth and Matthew traded glances before the latter agreed that should well suffice "—and they'll need to be laundered daily, thoroughly. Also, I've made a list for Miss Baxter to fetch from the apothecary: sleeping powders, herbs, that sort of thing. He shuns laudanum or any spirit-based concoctions, which suits me perfectly well. I'll mix a tea that should allow him to sleep a few hours before today's jaunt."

"You are more than welcome to join us, Cousin," said Elizabeth.

William seconded the offer that was gently declined with Matthew's stated intention to join Kitty and the children in Hope Valley later that afternoon. "Your guest made abundantly clear his disinterest in my company beyond a medical context."

Darcy again grew incensed. "He actually said that?"

"That business is better left between us. That being said, _Master_ Darcy, do give it your best effort not to be cross or confrontational; for it is useless to try and muzzle or leash him like a foxhound. Ease your temper, relax your control, and he will show you respect in kind. Practice patience, pick your battles, and see that he does not exert himself." Matthew peered out the window. "The weather promises to be pleasant. We've not seen rain for a while, which is helpful. Morning air's a bit damp, but should be dryer by the afternoon. Better for the lungs."

To that point Elizabeth brought up George and the idea of him joining their party.

"Thornhaugh mentioned that, too," replied Matthew. "I was not keen at first, but he does delight in verbal swordplay, to a right exhausting degree. I finally relented when George himself confirmed that he should very much like to participate. I daresay it appears the boy has shown vast improvement overnight, both physically and mentally; though I am surprised, Darcy, by your willingness to allow him his pick of horses."

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

* * *

Darcy finished his meal quickly, in as much haste quitting the breakfast parlor to gain the outdoors and the stables, where he was near out of breath by the time he found Hodges.

"Mr. Darcy," the man said with a start, rare as it was to see the master so hurried.

"Hodges," Darcy puffed out, "my message to you last night…"

"Yes, sir?"

"I had meant to add a condition to that. Our guest is welcome to any horse of his choosing, save one. See that Perseus is pastured forthwith, somewhere far, well out of proximity of—"

"Too late, Darcy!" cried Thornhaugh from the adjacent wing of stalls around the next corner.

Darcy murmured an oath as Hodges informed him the marquess had been surveying the stock for more than half an hour. "I think milord's found his favorite, sir, though he's been right complimentary of the others. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"Mostly!" the marquess echoed just prior to a brief attack of rough coughs.

Said Hodges, "What am I to do, sir?"

"I need a minute," Darcy grumbled as he quit his man's company for Thornhaugh's. He was leaned against the front panel of the white stallion's stall, gazing within as a spellbound youth.

"Stunning creature," said he, then with an elbow to Darcy's ribs, "Early bird gets the worm, eh? Master may want to rise a bit earlier next time."

"Choose another. Perseus is not for you."

His face fell. "And why not?"

"For reasons better discussed in dryer quarters at a later hour." To underscore his decision, Darcy turned and strode away.

Within seconds Thornhaugh took up his cane and caught up to him, walking alongside down a long row of stalls. "What is there to discuss? That is the one, Darcy—large, mighty, yearning to be jockeyed. Born of a racer, what?"

"Well observed, but—"

"Ah, marvelous!" the marquess cheered. "Take him out, Mr. Hodges! I want to see him run!" Then to Darcy, gleefully, "Like the wind, I'll wager."

"And nearly as wild, Thornhaugh. Such he has been from the day I was forced to tear him from his poor mother's womb. He trusts and respects but a scarce few to whom he is willing to submit, those who raised him from birth. My sister and I, no one else. That is how it is."

"How _you_ designed it, you selfish prat. Wait, I didn't mean that! Just let me have a go at him, Darcy. I love a feisty mount and have taken many a fall—dozens! The trick is knowing how to land."

"And thus leaving you with how many broken bones?"

Thornhaugh considered a while before answering, "Do the little ones count? Fingers and toes, that sort of thing?"

"It would be your neck, should a featherweight like you make the endeavor. No, out of the question, and I do resent your notion that the horse is neglected. We give him a good run, my sister and I, on rare occasions."

"How rare?"

"Oh…three or four, perhaps."

"In a span of…?"

"…Twelve years?"

"Twelve bloody years!"

"Eleven and a half."

"My God, Darcy! The unmitigated cruelty! to sentence a horse of such magnitude to purgatory. He would be jolly grateful to have a rider like me on his back, one respectful of his instincts, indulgent of his nature, and therefore wholly superior in every regard."

"Talk till you're blue; I'll not bend. My house, my horse, my rules."

"'Tis a bitter disappointment," Thornhaugh lamented. "I had always pegged you a horse master—not a _hoarder_."

"I am not a hoarder!"

"You are, though. And that one there I understand is Mr. Wickham's mount."

Darcy followed his pointing finger. "Hermes, yes. Purchased just after George came to live with us."

"The boy's clearly outgrown this pony. Time for an upgrade, a high-spirited hot-blood."

"Insupportable at this juncture. George is still a novice."

"A novice! How can that be? I was an intermediate at a year or two younger, and the boy professed to me himself a passion for the sport."

"But passion compensates not for a lack of experience. George was not raised on horses as you and I. Alas! but his mother, God rest her, was very…nurturing. It has taken all of two years to get him to the second lowest tier."

Replied Thornhaugh with a tsk, "Pity, that. Nothing so crippling as a nervous mother."

"You should be the last person in the world to blame her."

Thornhaugh winced as if he were stung. "I absolve the dead of blame, Darcy. Perhaps you will likewise absolve me."

"It is not _my_ absolution you should be seeking."

"I seek no one's, I assure you."

"And you are neither dead nor dying."

"That is not what you said last night, is it?"

Darcy sighed with regret. "We are all apt to say things we don't mean when particularly annoyed. Old habits die hard. Forgive me."

"We were talking of your nephew, I believe. Let us press on. Did he inherit these delicate nerves?"

"To some degree, but I think it a more studied behavior than an inherited one."

"And an enabled one, I dare conjecture."

"As one of meager understanding and less compassion, you would dare."

"Is he dim-witted?"

"What? No! Over-confident, but very eager, willing, adept, and quite diligent."

"Then blimey! surely he is ready for a larger, stronger mount."

"And I say it is still too soon."

Their argument endured a full round about the stables, at the exit meeting back up with Hodges, who was standing in wait for an order. "Shall I take out Perseus, sir?"

"Yes," answered Darcy and Thornhaugh in unison "—but not for _his_ reason," added the former.

"Aye, sir," replied Hodges, and then left them alone to face one another just outside.

"Listen," said Darcy, "It is admirable, your efforts to do right by little George—"

"Oh, do stop calling him that, I beg you. Give the boy some dignity, for God's sake."

"Now you accuse me of robbing his dignity?"

"You chip it away with every utterance of that insufferable descriptor, whether he hears it or not."

"That is absurd! It is a term of endearment dating back to infancy."

"Even worse; for now I know he is perceived as little more than a little duplicate of big Wickham."

Darcy went red with anger, replying with discomposure, "You could not be more wrong."

"Then retire it, and commit to never saying it again. Denounce the curse, bury the past, and embrace the future."

Darcy was just about to retort when a bright and joyful Janie appeared before them. "Good morning, Papa. Good morning, Lord Thornhaugh." She dipped a curtsey.

While Darcy mastered his seething emotions, Thornhaugh effortlessly matched her good cheer. "How are you this fine day, Miss Janie?"

"Very good, my Lord."

"Getting an early start, are we?"

"Just visiting Aries, sir, as I do every morning."

"Then as you were, sweetling. Your father and I are in mid-debate, and I am winning. There's a good girl."

Janie tittered a laugh and sprinted away, Thornhaugh's eyes following her with curiosity. "As I was saying, Darcy—"

"—Now see here, Thornhaugh, I'll simply not tolerate your wholly unwelcome, insufferably impertinent…where are you going?"

The marquess had abruptly quit their quarrel and was now walking trancelike in Janie's direction, Darcy soon realizing the man's attention had been captured by a particular vision he was determined to inspect with more diligence.

In a few quick strides Darcy met up with him to walk the remainder of the twenty yards to the deer's paddock, where Janie was already beginning to make the climb.

"This is Aries?" the marquess asked her.

"Yes, my Lord," she answered smilingly. "Isn't he beautiful?"

She swung over, jumped and landed, gaining instant access to her grazing fallow. Thornhaugh looked on mutely, disturbance read on every feature of his face, his fingers closed tightly around the sturdy structure serving to hold the innately feral creature captive.

"Janie, darling," said Darcy, bracing himself for another dressing down. "Tell the marquess how we acquired Aries."

The girl lovingly stroked the docile deer's neck, happy to relate the story. "His mother was shot dead by a poacher two springs ago while we all happened to be out riding in the west wood. It was horrible! but all was forgiven soon after."

"Forgiven? Am I to understand your father showed mercy to a _poacher_, one who took down a doe in his own presence and that of his family?"

Janie nodded. "Mr. Martin expressed much remorse in the end. He works here now, and built for us the paddock to hold Aries, who was left orphaned and all alone. Papa calls him _our_ pet, but really he is all mine; for I nursed him, named him, and love him best of all."

"I am sure you do, my dear," said Thornhaugh, his sarcasm seeping just below the surface. Not that Janie noticed as she merely smiled in return, her beloved pet nibbling up chestnuts from her open palm.

"There is more to the story than that," said Darcy, avoiding the man's dour, somehow paler mien. And I've every intention of setting him free, next year."

"Next year," Thornhaugh repeated bitterly.

Darcy sighed, empathizing as much as he detested being judged. "You will understand better with a more thorough explanation. Have dinner with us again tonight, and all shall be explained. You are welcome tomorrow evening, as well, and every one thereafter, should you feel up for it. Consider it an open invitation."

"Oh yes, please, my Lord!" cried Janie, running up to them. "Dine with us! And afterwards, we shall play for you. Do you like music? My brothers and I are quite good!"

Thornhaugh affirmed that he did like music, and then excused himself with the assertion that he was tired and favored a rest. Darcy joined him in his walk back towards the house, the marquess saying after a short silence: "You dine with your children every evening? I had assumed it rather depended on the occasion."

"You assume a good deal. Lizzy and I have always lived by our own rules, our own conventions. And our children, we feel, are all the healthier for it."

"It would seem so," said he in an exceedingly rare expression of generosity before their attention was seized again, this time by the sight of Miss Baxter walking up the pebbled lane to Pemberley House, a bundle secured in both arms.

"Good morning, Baxter!" called Thornhaugh in a sing-song voice.

The woman halted to answer him with a stiff, "Good morning, sir."

"I hope you find it not too beneath your station to run such menial errands. No doubt one of _your_ education should much rather be at work molding young minds."

"Not at all, sir," she said undauntedly. "I find the exercise beneficial."

Thornhaugh glared for a moment before replying, "Quite a large parcel you have there, Baxter. Were you confounded by the doctor's instruction, or just too tempted not to purchase a few _medicines_ for yourself?"

"Indeed not, sir. A courier just handed me a package for you from Summerhill."

"Summerhill?" He reached out, ordering her to bring it to him, but the woman did not budge.

"As all deliveries are to be made to your room, sir, that is where this one shall be waiting. Good day, sir." And then she continued on her way at a brisk pace before her charge could respond or attempt to catch up.

Thornhaugh bristled as he watched her leave, pointing a very angry finger. "Dismiss that woman, Darcy!"

"I'll do no such thing," replied Darcy with much amusement. "Have a pleasant rest, Thornhaugh. We shall meet back here after luncheon; let's say two o'clock. Try not to be late."

And with a clap to the man's back, Darcy began a casual stroll back to the house.


	20. Chapter 20

Miss Baxter considered herself a woman of principle, and as such was disinclined to address him as _'Lord';_ for a man with no station was also unworthy of ceremony. She could easily address him with the respect to which any man who had performed a righteous deed was entitled (that being his retrieval of Mr. Wickham), but could not see her way to a formal acknowledgement of his affiliation with an elite class possessing the sort of privilege, education, fortune, and connections denied to most commoners. _'Sir'_ suited him well enough, and until the master or mistress ordered otherwise would she continue addressing him thus.

A few days into her occupation Miss Baxter still knew very little of him, and was volunteered no more intelligence than that which had been intimated, leaving her with no choice but to form her own conclusions in the short time spent in his company, and now feeling more confident in her understanding of what brought this _Thornhaugh_ to his wretched state. His was a story she had heard all her life, one of depraved self-interest within the coveted ranks of nobility. It seemed insupportable, that a man could squander these God-given advantages, dishonor himself and his lineage for purely selfish pursuits; worst of all, that he could show so little remorse in the aftermath of his inevitable spiral into illness, destitution and disgrace.

His character was a recipe containing a good dash of allure to offset the heaping cup of inborn arrogance, thus exposing him as the sort of _gentleman_ her father, in his long and profitable career, had been obliged to defend while concurrently denouncing the amorality and corruption his profession upheld. 'Twas a rarity for a woman of her meager station to view this archetypal example up close, to converse with him as one at liberty to engage on a level near equal to his own, and with no threat to her situation for the odd impertinence which kept his ruder remarks in proper check. It was with great thanks to her highly sympathetic employers, that she could interact with such freedom.

She believed that virtually everything in life was meant to be observed, studied, and then used to educate future pupils, especially those with a proclivity for mischief and vice. By virtue of her experience with this Lord of Dissipation, children of similar pedigree and privilege would be duly warned of the dangers of the deadly sins which could send them, too, down a devastating path, should they fall out of line with their teachings.

But compassion, too, was a virtue, and in truth Miss Baxter, as a Christian woman, did pity the poor man serving the ultimate penance for his foolish choices in life. It was a sad outcome indeed, that his final months were to be spent not among loved ones, but rather as a burden to an excessively generous couple who clearly regarded him with as much distrust as concern. Even the one connection actively sought out, that being Lord Russell, was apparently unwilling to receive him, favoring written correspondence to any other. A lamentably low outcome for a man born so high.

_The wretch, concentred all in self…shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung…_

"Unwept, unhonored, and unsung," Miss Baxter quoted from her favorite Scott poem upon making her delivery to Thornhaugh's quarters. On her way to report back to Dr. Fitzwilliam she would again encounter his patient, their very recent exchange evidently forgotten as he gruffly bade use of her shoulder after having just taken the last of many stairs to the third floor.

She allowed, in a politer manner than himself, use of her as a crutch to accompany his cane, his brow dampened from the effort expended in making the climb which seemed awfully detrimental to any one's health already in decline. They made the slow walk towards his room, wordless but for her statement that she had seen to the refilling of his water pitcher. Suddenly, there was a pause in his steps as he began to lurch and heave, hand spread over mouth to prevent the coughs from escaping, presumably for lack of something to cough into. Quickly she offered him her handkerchief, which he accepted with a brief inspection of its frilly embroidery before pressing the cloth firmly against his mouth, near doubling over as he bore a series of shuddering coughs, flushed red and temple vein throbbing by the end. He took another few moments to catch his breath, and as he did so she watched his face contort into a deep scowl, anger and scorn read on every feature. He then stuffed the scarlet-stained fabric into his pocket, not that she wished for it back, and from thence was resumed their slow and steady pace up the hall. Upon entrance he made an instant beeline for the table on which his delivery sat; the medicine parcel shoved aside to get at the package from Summerhill.

"Wait here, Baxter," he ordered while tearing into the brown wrapping. "I may have another thankless chore for you."

"Yes, sir," she said evenly, having already learned to ignore the discourtesy ostensibly favored over any effort to make peace with his family, God, and eternity.

The wrap was tossed away carelessly, thus revealing an entwined stack of letters, the one loose note at the top promptly unfolded, read, and then crushed into a tight ball, a low growl emanating from deep within his ravaged lungs.

"Compose a response," he said, "from Lord Thornhaugh to Lord Russell, care of Summerhill, Pemberley. Quote: '**I reject your terms.**' Unquote. To be delivered straight away. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," answered she. "Shall I pour you a glass—"

Her question was cut short by his sudden and violent thrusting of the small table upon which the items were set, sending everything to the floor with a loud crash. Not another word was uttered as he then stormed from the immaculate sitting room into the adjacent bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

Miss Baxter gave her nerves time to calm before tending to the mess, imagining that these "terms" must have been unwelcome indeed to induce an explosion of temper so fierce. She righted the table, and then knelt to collect the fallen clutter, her eye naturally catching sight of the scrunched paper for which it would seem was of no further use, meant for the fire if anything.

It was with impossibly enticing curiosity, that Miss Baxter then took up and smoothed out the note, likely to have felt a good deal of guilt later on for her actions that followed, had the four ominous words contained therein not sent her heart to fluttering wildly again.

**_"Do not kill him._**

**_ "John"_**

So brief yet so convoluted, leaving much to the imagination as Miss Baxter mulled over this hotly rejected plea devoid of context, not that there could possibly be an agreeable interpretation of so ghastly a notion. Could there?

Her throat went dry and hands trembled as she stared at the paper, her mind searching for any excuse to discard and forget what she had just read.

The endeavor was fruitless; for there could be no sense made of it, no hope of setting her mind at ease with so little to work with. _And who is him?_ thought she. _Might the Darcys know? Could they really be housing a prospective murderer?_

She remembered the master's instruction—_Should you find his behavior particularly troubling, you must report it immediately—_and decided to take the note into possession. In haste she finished her cleanup and left the room, all but certain as to her next course, and praying for God's protection.

* * *

The sun was shining and air crisper by the afternoon, one that Thornhaugh seemed eager to conquer after a cup of the doctor's herbal tea and a good, long nap. He would join up with the Darcys and their brood of four refreshed, in fact near to bursting with vigor as he mounted his chosen steed named Cronus, a most impressive model of a bay coat and black mane. Darcy, meanwhile, opted for Perseus out of Thornhaugh's vexing charge of neglect, while the rest took up their usual mounts, each of which procured for and conditioned to their respective riders with the utmost care.

With everyone fitted and prepared, Darcy announced the itinerary for their excursion, the scenic route mapped out in his head to the last landmark sure to enchant the most skeptical tourist; for the grounds of Woburn (said to be splendid) simply must compare to Pemberley! and Thornhaugh—were he truly honest—would then be forced to concede its magnificence, and then acknowledge the significance of an estate as a point of pride to one's legacy, which then would lead to a move towards repentance and redemption as he came to this realization of a life wasted, with Heaven to be his ultimate reward. It was an outcome worth hoping for if not depending on; but no sooner had they taken the front park, than Darcy was met with Thornhaugh's challenge made in a voice loud enough for all to hear:

"I propose we start things off with a bit of fun, Mr. Darcy, by requesting that my horse be ridden against yours."

Darcy was at first baffled before comprehension dawned and annoyance grew. "Don't be stupid," he muttered.

The marquess then slowed the whole party to a standstill. "If I am not to be allowed on his back, then perchance you would grant me the great privilege of demonstrating what he was bred for. That is, if you think you can master him at his fastest gait."

Proclaimed Ben, proudly, "Papa can master any horse at any gait, even Perseus. We have seen it ourselves."

"I believe you, Master Ben," replied Thornhaugh, "but Mr. Darcy contends my skills are inferior, which I cannot abide."

"I never said that. And if you are seriously suggesting we race, I most respectfully decline."

"A race!" shouted Janie, clapping her hands together. "How exciting!"

Thornhaugh then said to Ben, quite purposefully, "I can outpace any man, your father included," which angered the boy enough to beg heartily that his Lordship be proven wrong.

Darcy was far better composed in his reply. "He is goading you, Son. It is what he does best, and why he is best ignored."

"A short race, mind you," Thornhaugh pressed, "for my strength is hardly what it used to be."

"And therefore best conserved," Darcy reasoned firmly, his wife adding with a softer inflection:

"Even a short race is hardly worth the potential detriment to your health, Lord Thornhaugh, as Dr. Fitzwilliam would surely agree."

"I respectfully _disagree_ with the good doctor, Mrs. Darcy, and ask that you hear out the details of my challenge, which entails a mere sprint back up the park, from this starting point" (his finger was used to illustrate) "to the great house, the finish line crossed at the statue of Venus, a course which measures about one furlong, roughly." On Darcy's questioning look he added, "My balcony provides a perfect view for the calculation to which I think you can agree, unless you have a more precise understanding, say, in the form of a draft or…"

"A furlong is a fair approximation, were I tempted to placate you."

"Which you are," countered Thornhaugh, "had you the heart to admit it."

Elizabeth, intuiting a more heated exchange, cut in with, "This challenge, my dear gentlemen, sounds neither safe nor sensible." Her opinion was backed fervently by the eight-year-old, who voiced his worry that both men might take a bad fall and be horribly injured.

"Your concern is noted, Mr. Malcolm," replied Thornhaugh in earnest, "but even your father would argue it is unwarranted, master horseman that he is, —that we are!" then to Darcy, "the ground is smooth and even, the grass of a perfect length and texture. Your Mr. Hodges assured me that Cronus here is your second fastest. I need to feel the wind. movement. speed. distance. Were you in my place, you would feel no differently, nor would you be denied."

Darcy sighed heavily. "I should have expected this; for you could not possibly be content with an easy, affable, tranquil excursion."

"I am always affable, but will promise to be as tranquil as you like after this one challenge. Moreover, should you best me, I am willing to bow to your superior sense henceforward. Your every word, every rule, every order shall be obeyed without argument. Not five seconds after your victory, I shall become the meekest lodger under your roof."

Darcy scoffed. "Impossible."

"Irrefutable! You've no reason to doubt me; for we have competed before, and you were victorious. We have also wagered, and you have won. Did I not pay my debt, Mr. Darcy, and promptly?"

"You did," Darcy had to concur. "But how do you not comprehend my advantage? I know my stock, sir; and even my second fastest would lose to Perseus by lengths."

"Have you tested that theory?"

"No, but—"

"Then _my_ theory argues this _featherweight_, as you have termed me, should place our odds at about even."

"Hardly that."

"Prove me wrong."

"_I_ have nothing to prove."

"And I have plenty, which improves my odds all the more." He then turned to George, "Mr. Wickham, do answer sincerely. On which of us would you lay a good wager?" A sharp glance from Darcy spurred him to add, "Not that I should ever condone it, young man."

George did not take long to answer. "You, my Lord."

"What!" cried both Darcy and Ben in harmony. Said the latter, "You cannot be serious, George."

"Now, now," said Thornhaugh, "do allow the young man to explain his answer. Why so, Mr. Wickham? Speak plainly."

George began shyly but ended boldly: "Because…well, sir, because Cronus was sired by a Derby champion. Like Perseus, he has excellent knee position, plenty of bone, and powerful hind quarters. Additionally, his strides are longer, and should therefore cover more ground. I myself have wondered how they should match up."

Thornhaugh chuckled at the surprised reactions of his company before replying, "A very thoughtful explanation, Mr. Wickham, and well-informed. What say you, Miss Janie?"

"Me, sir? Well, I've not George's knowledge of horses. I only know Perseus is _very_ fast indeed, and Cronus of a tamer spirit."

Countered George, "That means he is better focused. And consider the riders, too. Uncle Darcy might outweigh his Lordship by a stone and a half."

She took moments to study both men before replying, "I don't find their differences all that noticeable, and think the horses most telling. Perseus has the passion to win, and so I must declare Papa the victor in the end. Sorry, my Lord."

"No apology needed, my dear lady, and I thank you for your honest assessment. Well, Master Ben, I think we know from that severe gaze your own feelings on the matter, and I understand completely. Love tends to rule over reason. And Mr. Malcolm has decreed along with the missus that it is safety that matters above all, a term I can well agree to, if I may have your trust."

This served to quiet their objections if not gain an endorsement. Meanwhile, at Darcy's continued reluctance Ben urged, "Go on, Papa. You race with Uncle Richard all the time."

"Whereas I've not raced in years," said Thornhaugh with a shrug. "Should be an easy victory."

"And a greater reward," said Elizabeth, "if _you_ happen to claim it."

"In truth, Mrs. Darcy, I've not settled on my prize of preference, nor have I given much thought beyond a good bit of sport." He made doe eyes at Darcy. "Please, sir. Will you not indulge me this once? You've so much—your family, your health—and I've so little."

"Oh, for—" Darcy nearly cursed as he grudgingly accepted the challenge.

Five minutes later, the two men were moved into position at the agreed upon starting line, Elizabeth tasked with placing the children within optimum view of the contest while staying clear of the competitors. The three eldest observed in all enthusiasm from atop their mounts, discussing amongst themselves their favored contender, the youngest showing far less interest than patience, his boredom eased with the stroking of his pony's soft mane.

As Darcy and Thornhaugh bickered inaudibly from afar over one detail or another, Malcolm leaned towards his mother, gaining her attention with a slight tug to her skirt.

"Mamma," said he, "Why has Lord Thornhaugh no family?"

Elizabeth pondered the best way to answer, finally settling on, "It is complicated, dearest."

"Have they all gone to Heaven?"

"No, my dear. They are…estranged."

The boy considered this answer for some moments. "Did he do something wrong?"

Elizabeth then realized the conversation was not to be evaded, and therefore opted to assuage her youngest in the simplest manner possible. "Some temperaments do not mix well, Thornhaugh's most incompatible with that of men who share with him a common...cultivation."

"Why, Mamma?"

"I think because the marquess chose to lead a very different life than what was expected—or rather _demanded_ of him, and the flouting of convention is rarely accepted by families of a certain…distinction. His own father was much stricter than yours, very adamant, unforgiving, and unloving, while Thornhaugh was, in turn, very obstinate. Sometimes, the more one is pushed, the harder he fights."

"You say Papa is obstinate."

"And so he is," she smiled. "As much as I, which is why we are a good match."

"Perhaps Papa and his Lordship could become friends then."

"Oh, but they are, sweetheart!" cried she, adding with a wink, "Whether they know it or not."

"I think it sad to be estranged."

"Yes, it is rather sad. But as you see, his Lordship is not bothered, and does not pity himself, which is admirable."

"Miss Baxter says a pity party has few guests, and even fewer presents."

Her grin spread wide. "I am certain his Lordship would agree, my dear."

"Off they go!" cried Janie as the race finally began, Darcy taking an early lead. "Go, Papa! Go, Perseus!"

Ben smirked at George. "There, you see. What did I tell you?"

Just a moment or two later, George pointed out that Cronus was picking up speed as he praised the marquess as an exceptional conductor, "—which can make all the difference in the world. Uncle Darcy has only to make one miscalculation, and his Lordship will pounce. Look, there he goes!"

"Go, Papa!" Ben shouted repeatedly, frantically.

Janie cheered, "They are neck and neck! Perseus is faltering!"

Asked Malcolm over the shouting and commentating, "Does he not have a wife, Mamma?"

"He was married, many years ago," answered Elizabeth. "But his wife, unfortunately of a sickly constitution, died just over a year later." She suddenly felt the need to add, "You understand these are delicate subjects, Malcolm, which you are never to raise in his Lordship's presence."

"I won't, Mamma."

The race went on, the marquess gaining the lead to Ben's extreme disappointment, while his sister began moving to George's side. "Heavens, look at him go!" cried she. "I think his Lordship might win…yes, he's won! He's won! What a race!"

* * *

After winning, the men slowed their steeds to a halt. Thornhaugh fought for air against the inflammation in his lungs. Tears sprung as the pain in his chest increased.

Darcy quickly dismounted in alarm, catching his own breath as he advanced. "Blast it! I knew this was a bloody mistake!"

His fast approach was waved off. "Stay back," Thornhaugh rasped, sliding off his saddle. He took a few steps before falling to his knees, staring at the ground as he sharply motioned for Darcy to keep his distance. After some time, when his breathing finally returned to some semblance of normalcy, the marquess looked at him and said, "Assure me you gave your best effort."

"Oh, I assure you, stupid bastard. Where the devil did you learn to ride like that?"

Thornhaugh wheezed a laugh between coughs into his handkerchief. A minute later arrived Elizabeth and the children, the elder ones looking on in distress as Malcolm dropped to the ground in a dash to Thornhaugh's aid.

"My Lord!" the boy cried out, every shouted order to stay back ignored as he knelt before him. "Do you need help? Shall I get the doctor?" Thornhaugh shook his head vigorously as Malcom persisted: "Please, it won't take long. I'm a fast runner."

"I am sure you are, but there is no need. I am better." He laughed again. "Oh, what jolly good fun that was! Did you see me? Like the wind!"

"Can you stand, my Lord?" the boy asked in all concern. "Here, take my hand, and I'll help you up."

Thornhaugh jerked away to avoid being touched. "No! Stand perfectly still. I will place my hand upon your shoulder like so…and then lift myself up. You mustn't touch me, understand? There we are. Many thanks, Mr. Malcolm. Now who has my walking stick?"

"Right here, your Lordship," said Janie, extending it out to him. The whole family congratulated his victory, George being the most exuberant, and Ben exhibiting all that good sportsmanship required.

Said Elizabeth, "I suppose we had better call everything off and get you inside."

"Whatever for?" said Thornhaugh. "I am perfectly well. No, I wish to continue. To your horses, everyone. There are only so many hours in the day. Lead on, Mr. Darcy. I am ready."


	21. Chapter 21

The remainder of the afternoon was spent riding at an easy, measured pace, the question of Thornhaugh's health answered in the positive as no complaints and very few coughs were heard inside of four hours. Their stops were frequent, each novelty of the estate accompanied with Darcy's descriptive lecture on its history and purpose, his firstborn often interjecting one extra piece of trivia or another, the boy vigilant in assuring no detail was overlooked. The marquess took in everything with a certain diligence, his senses highly attuned to their surrounding environment in a manner most impressively displayed to his companions. He was always the first to spot a rabbit, a tortoise, or some other point of intrigue before anyone else, a talent which gradually evolved into a game as the children were challenged along their journey to seek out whatever it was his Lordship had just spied, each discovery both exciting and unique. Even Elizabeth was impelled to join in, and on Thornhaugh's hints managed to win a few times, an uncommonly seen red squirrel among her most interesting finds.

At a crystal clear pond the children sought to suspend the tour for a spot of recreation to accompany a light repast of tea and various treats under a large tree, the marquess consuming not a morsel to Darcy's outspoken disapproval; thus ensued a brief quarrel between them until Thornhaugh's casual threat to toss the entire basket into the pond put a grudging end to it. Just a few minutes later Malcolm, who had been skipping rocks with the others during their squabble, ran to the basket and extracted two macarons. The boy then placed one at Thornhaugh's side, neither a word nor look between them exchanged, before taking the other one back to the pond "for the ducks."

When the Darcys had expected to hear another sharp objection, Thornhaugh instead took up the confection, popped it into his mouth, and fell back into a reclined position against the great oak, closing his eyes to the lulling song of the blackbirds overhead. Darcy followed suit by lying flat upon one end of the massive blanket, taking Elizabeth with him as she snuggled cozy as a kitten. For a good, long spell they all three basked in the warmth and beauty of nature while the children played, the couple talking of plans for their gardens as Darcy toyed absently with his wife's hair.

"Orchids," said Thornhaugh quite suddenly, still resting his eyes, the rest of him perfectly relaxed. "A garden can never have too many orchids, of every size and color, interspersed with bells of Ireland for the perfect contrast. But that is my own opinion, of course."

"I shall keep that in mind," said Darcy without irony. Elizabeth chose to take advantage of this rare moment of goodwill between them by raising a subject of lingering interest to her.

"Do you still draw, my Lord?" asked she.

"Not for years, Mrs. Darcy," he answered drowsily.

"That is a pity, for William and I so admired your sketches of swirling, intricate patterns. Most of them were seized by London officials after you…"

"Died?" he finished drolly.

"Went missing," she amended, "but we did manage to stow away one for ourselves. I later applied that sketch, Lord Thornhaugh, as a model for William's hedge maze."

The man quirked a smile, but otherwise did not flinch. "How emblematic! that it is now burned beyond recognition."

"It turned out beautifully," she went on, ignoring his sarcasm, "and was a favorite attraction for years among travelers, visitors, family, friends—everyone! The children played there every day. It meant a good deal to us all."

"And its reconstruction," added Darcy, "shall be modeled after the very same pattern."

This proclamation, to the couple's dismay, was given all the attention of a deep yawn before the subject was changed as if out of boredom. "I suppose," said Thornhaugh, "you will be sending your boys off to school soon."

After his assumption was confirmed the marquess opened his eyes and fixed on the couple a sober gaze. "Not London, not Sussex, and not Winchester."

"Eton," said Darcy, adding that Ben and George were enrolled already for this coming autumn.

"I never went there, so I cannot speak to its conditions or...administration. But if _your_ memory serves, Darcy, I should think your heir shall get on just as well."

"How did you know I…never mind. Perceptive as usual. Yes, my memories of the place are indeed happy ones; and I find the sort of tutorage and discipline that can only be experienced at a structured institution most beneficial to a young gentleman's education and development."

"And what need, pray tell, has Mr. Wickham for so _beneficial_ an education? What sort of living is he to be groomed for as your eldest prepares to take ownership of his pre-destined prospects?"

Answered Darcy, "George is to carry on his own family legacy from Longbourn Estate in Hertfordshire. Do you know the region?"

"Passed through there once or twice." He then murmured, "Bumpkin-filled country towns."

"'Twas the home of my youth," said Elizabeth, trying and failing to hide her umbrage, "entailed upon George after my father's death, and remembered fondly."

Thornhaugh expressed not a word of remorse to her censure, not that it was expected, his eyes still closed as the two boys approached, neither Ben nor George at all cognizant of the discourse as they plopped themselves down for a little shade and refreshment.

Said Thornhaugh, "We were discussing the gardens, Mr. Wickham, particularly the hydrophobic effects on soil after a fire. What are your thoughts on replenishing the ground for restoration?"

George had no answer, and after half a minute of contemplation was forced to ask what the word hydrophobic meant, to which Ben answered:

"That is when the soil repels water due to erosion from the heat."

"Indeed," replied Thornhaugh, "and what must be done about it, Master Ben?"

"Compost material must be laid out over the land to allow for rain absorption, restoring the soil's vitality so that replanting may commence."

Ben's well-studied response was duly commended before the marquess when on to say, "Now tell me, Master Ben, what does 'takhi' mean?"

The boy wrinkled his brow. "I've…not heard that word before, sir."

Cried George, "I know the answer, my Lord! It means 'spirit.'"

"Are you certain, Mr. Wickham? How do you know this?"

"I read it in a book, sir. There was a chapter on the wild horses of Mongolia. That is their common name."

"Ah, so it is, sir. And now tell me, what was the original name of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ before it was seized by the dreaded Blackbeard and his crew of marauders?"

George answered swiftly, "_La Concorde, _sir."

"Well done." The marquess smiled faintly. "I had a ship once, you know. And not a merchant ship for the doing of business, but a passenger vessel of my very own; an old whaler bought, paid for, and refurbished with no expense spared."

"With your very own crew, my Lord?" asked George with eager interest.

Thornhaugh nodded. "And she was glorious, Mr. Wickham, before she caught fire and burned away like your beloved botanicals. Bad bit of luck that was. Have you ever sailed before?"

"No, sir," the boy answered. "What is it like?"

"Well, it depends. A sea voyage is much different to a free man than one seized, shackled, and then stowed away in steerage. I have sailed as master, passenger _and_ prisoner, constrained as a youth not in iron but rather in luxury, my destination determined by a warden bent on maneuvering me in his preferred direction. By your age I had crossed the sea no less than half a dozen times, from this school to that one, from one country to the next. Such is the penalty for the decidedly ill-behaved."

"A warden, sir?" said Ben. "I don't understand."

"Nor would you, Master Ben," said the marquess, "which is an enviable quality. You, sir, have a very bright future ahead of you. Of that I am certain. You shall make your father very proud."

"He already does," said Darcy, then with inference to the other children, "They all do."

This assured declaration was met with a knowing smirk before the marquess went on, "I gather you have toured a ship before, Mr. Wickham?"

"Yes, sir. In Brighton."

"And you remember that feeling, I'll wager. The enchantment, the invigoration…"

"I think we had better press on," said Darcy, helping Elizabeth to her feet as he stood. Janie and Malcolm were called away from their collecting of tadpoles, Ben and George tasked with gathering the kit, and Darcy taking Thornhaugh aside for a private and earnest conversation.

"Mind your own business," he cautioned.

"I know not what you mean, sir."

"You know exactly what I mean. You would never stand for _my_ interference, and I'll not stand for yours."

Thornhaugh winced before replying, in a sneering tone, "Point well taken, sir. Indeed, a man's commodities are his own—"

"This is not a debate!"

"—and I should be damned to pose a disruption to your design. Build your garden and all its blossoms just to your liking; I'll not impede you. Just know that hubris, Mr. Darcy, is not flame-resistant." And with that, Thornhaugh walked away, tasking himself to prepare the horses.

* * *

The next hour was stiffer than the last, Darcy resuming his educational tour with but a fraction of the feeling as before, his wife's whispered question if all was well met with his fair and accurate complaint of a sudden attack by a most troublesome headache. Further inquiry was dismissed, she let the matter rest, and the ride continued. As the children appeared more and more confused by this strange tension in the air, Thornhaugh finally took it upon himself to rattle off a joke which served its purpose in making all four of them laugh. Another was told, then another and another until the whole party was in hysterics; even Darcy, who was unfortunately ill-equipped to tell one of his own, his talent for humor self-acknowledged as incomparable to that of his company, a match for neither his wittier wife nor the worldlier marquess.

After a line of jests came more stories masterfully told, Thornhaugh illustrating with sweeping gestures and vibrant language America's vast plains full of roaming bison called buffalo, and his exploration of the frontiers inhabited by indigenous natives, which prompted many questions from the children about their ways said to be very different from their own.

"Some tribes were peaceful; others savage," Thornhaugh included in his comprehensive account, and on Malcolm's puzzled look he then clarified, with an edge to his voice, "Murderous."

"Murderous!" cried the eight-year-old. "You mean on purpose? But why, my Lord?"

"It is perhaps a bit much for you to process, young Malcolm, but I shall make the endeavor. Purposeful savagery I should attribute to a fundamental cultural disagreement melded with very human characteristics: hatred, vengeance, _pride,_" (he cut a glance at Darcy) "all felt collectively within a fiercely united commune fixed on survival and propagation. Humankind apart from their own is thus devalued, perceived as sworn enemies no better than insects, and with strength in numbers and weapons the storm builds, intensifies, and then hell is unleashed upon their neighbors, or just about anyone they come across."

"You talk of evil," said Darcy, "and tyranny. Like our war with Bonaparte."

"_We_ are their Bonaparte," Thornhaugh rejoined. "Most countries sprout a tyrant every so often, some of whom are later deposed by a mob of tyrants. Luckily, I'm able to see every side with relative impartiality, and thus may view with little judgment the very worst of people so passionately convinced they know what is best. The natives are no different, only simpler."

Asked Janie, "How, my Lord, were you able tell the difference between civilized natives and _un_civilized? The pictures we've seen show no distinctions between the two."

"Because pictures are in two dimensions, Miss Janie. One tells by a face-to-face encounter, by their looks and manner, that of either aggression or curiosity. And their actions, that of either observation or confrontation."

Asked Elizabeth, "And how did you survive the savage?"

"By showing no fear, Mrs. Darcy, and fighting back when necessary. Of course, you are wildly outnumbered, likely to be killed on sight, if not worse. I learned early on that, while the white man is their enemy, they likewise honor no one so much as a warrior." He then unwound and removed his cravat, and to his enthralled companions moved aside the collar of his shirt to reveal a deep scar along his right pectoral. "At a cost, you see."

"Oh, dear," said Janie. "America sounds very dangerous."

"Some parts, indeed," said the marquess, "and very primitive, too, while others are making great strides, all with the aim to live up to an incredibly ambitious ideal, one I fear shall take much longer than I had once thought. Again, at a cost, and a very high one. But I truly believe, Miss Janie, that it will have all been worth it in the end. If only I still had my copy of their great document, then I would show you just what I mean."

"I know it already!" the girl happily proclaimed. "The Declaration of Independence."

"The very one, Miss," Thornhaugh commended, then asking with much interest, "Have you a copy, Mr. Darcy?"

"My father would not have it in his home. He believed the colonies traitorous to the Empire."

"And so they were." Thornhaugh grinned.

"Miss Baxter teaches us about the Americans from books," said Ben. "They are not complimentary, neither to their principles in general nor their Declaration."

"That is unsurprising. Barely half their own citizenry, never mind an English governess, can appreciate a doctrine so radical, so perfect, and so frightening all at once. And do you know how close I came to meeting its author, Mr. Jefferson?" The marquess narrowed his thumb and forefinger to leave a sliver of space between.

"What prevented you, sir?" asked Elizabeth.

"Myself, unfortunately, when I allowed other matters to take precedence. To this day I consider that failure to be the profoundest of my life, one I shall always regret." There was a brief but heavy silence before he suddenly changed the subject with, "Well! It would seem our tour is ending, and with hours to think on it, Mr. Darcy, I now know what prize I should like to claim for my win."

"And what is that, Thornhaugh?"

"This magnificent beast here." The marquess gave a firm pat to the neck of his mighty bay Thoroughbred. "I wish to have him for my own. When my travels recommence, Cronus will make an excellent transport."

George's response—a soft, "But"—prompted Thornhaugh to meet his eye. "Have you an objection, Mr. Wickham? Speak out then."

The boy answered sheepishly, "I only wondered how you would care for him, my Lord."

"What do you mean, _how?_" said Ben. "His Lordship is a _marquess_, higher born than almost anyone—even Uncle Richard!"

Thornhaugh looked at George pointedly. "What say you to that, Mr. Wickham?"

George carefully considered before answering, "Rank is not fortune."

"And both can be pissed away, Master Ben," subjoined Thornhaugh, earning a sharp reproof from Mr. and Mrs. Darcy for such language before readdressing the young master. "I beg your pardon, sir. That was terribly coarse and common of me." Then affecting a posher demeanor, "Right-O, Mr. Darcy, my good man! I hereby pledge my dedication to acquiring the funds needed for the horse's upkeep, and my own."

"And how are you to manage that, pray?"

"Thank you for asking. Your doubt is all the inspiration I need."

"You have it then. And should you raise so substantial a sum, I shall never doubt you again, and you may have Cronus with my blessing."

"Excellent!" cried the marquess as if he had already won.

The party proceeded, right fatigued but in good spirits as they reached the manor house at around dusk. The livery staff were there to meet them at the stables, where Hodges furtively informed the master that Lord Matlock had just arrived on horseback. "I am to tell you he wishes to meet with both you and his Lordship, sir."

"What's that, Mr. Hodges?" said Thornhaugh as he came just within earshot, the others busy handing their mounts off to be stabled. "Lord Matlock? As in, Richard Fitzwilliam? How marvelous!"

Hodges was excused and the men were left to themselves as Darcy said, "You knew Richard ascended?"

"You forget, Darcy, I've been back in England for some time. I know plenty. Well, let us not keep the earl waiting, shall we?"

"Not so hasty," Darcy warned. "I really ought to meet with him first. Alone."

"Oh, Jesus wept! Must you be so blastedly overcautious?"

"You are so quick to disparage without cause. It was _I_ who wrote to him and divulged everything. This call is well anticipated."

"Well, then—"

"But he also represents the Crown, Thornhaugh."

"As do I, Darcy—all the nasty bits, of course. Ol' Richard was the polished side of the noble coin, as I recall, which should make for an interesting, indeed irresistible conversation. You feel no differently, else you would not have written him in the first place."

"A risk was taken out of my rather desperate need for reinforcements and counsel. His visit is an amicable one, I am sure. I only ask that you let me gauge his temper before you—"

"I care not his temper, understand? nor Society's scrutiny, nor the King's wrath. A man cannot be killed twice."

Elizabeth was then seen staring at the two men from a distance, implicitly asking if something was amiss.

Thornhaugh motioned towards her, saying to Darcy, "Take leave of your family, and I shall meet you inside."

Darcy made to respond, but Thornhaugh had already turned away, making a slow but determined march to the house with the aid of his trusty alpenstock.

* * *

Not five minutes after returning home, William and Thornhaugh had taken themselves off to meet with Richard, leaving Elizabeth to take charge of the children on her husband's promise to recount everything upon this conference's conclusion.

The foursome was ushered indoors and upstairs on the instruction they wash and change for dinner, Elizabeth veering towards her own bedchamber to lie down for a while after such a long day which had been, for the most part, agreeable and entertaining. Thornhaugh, despite his petulant nature and penchant for derision, had such a natural way with the children that she felt it a right shame he had never sired one of his own, at least not to her knowledge, or his. She supposed it possible, though highly improbable, that he might have married again in his time abroad, but saw no use in making so intimate an inquiry; for he seemed quite fixed on leaving the past behind, guarding his most personal memories almost as a diary confined under lock and key. Far more than himself was a keen interest in the children's future, a matter William took very seriously and looked to with unyielding resolve. Elizabeth might have warned the marquess not to toy with the subject, were warnings not seen to him as an open door to new and interesting trials he was happy to embark upon, regardless of the consequences. It seemed a hopeless business to reason with either of them, pig-headed as they were. One could only hope they may find common ground before the end of Thornhaugh's…_visit._

Elizabeth decided not to allow such thoughts disturb her rest as she curled up in bed, having nearly succeeded in falling asleep when a gentle knock at the door promptly marred the objective. "Who is it?" she asked with some annoyance.

"Miss Baxter, ma'am," answered the governess in an uncommonly somber tone, Elizabeth's allowance for entry confirming a rather nervous, indeed fretful look in the woman's countenance as she made her apologies for the disturbance.

Elizabeth bade Miss Baxter to be seated, rather alarmed by her manner which seemed to suggest she had suffered a trauma from which she knew not how to recover, or quite how to explain it.

The two women sat across from one another at the fireplace, Miss Baxter beginning her narrative tentatively, and ending it with the passing of a crumpled note into Elizabeth's extended hand.


	22. Chapter 22

Few pleasantries were exchanged before Richard, powering through the disturbance of Thornhaugh's presence after years of believing him dead, stated a wish to get right down to business. "You are tired, no doubt. I shall try to be brief."

The hours spent out of doors were indeed read all over the sick man's features, and to the degree that Darcy wondered aloud if this conversation should be postponed till the morrow.

"Nay, I am well," he assured both men, sinking into a chair across from the earl while Darcy opted for a neutral spot between them. He then offered a sincere congratulations to Richard's ascent to the earldom, followed by the usual, less favorable qualifier. "Once in a hundred lifetimes enters a man of noble character into nobility."

"It is not so rare as that," replied Richard, "and I am hardly suitable for sainthood; but I do my best. You also needn't congratulate a title earned by a beloved father's death."

"And a less beloved brother, lest we forget," said Thornhaugh.

Richard set down his glass of port, his stare unwavering. "I never shall. Tell me, have you the same dagger used to terrify the indebted?"

"I threatened many a welcher's life with that dagger, which is now in a better place. May Sam Cullen find good use of it in hell."

Richard smiled faintly, in spite of himself. "Not changed a bit, I see."

"You expected otherwise? Sorry, Matlock, but I am taking all this conviviality to the grave. Speaking of which, I understand my name has, along with my memory, been permanently laid to rest."

Richard confirmed this to be true. "Thornhaugh is viewed now as a curse among territories and a name to be nullified, replaced with something fresh and innocuous. A clean slate, as it were. If and when John claims the title."

"I see. And the new province?"

"Tavistock, I believe. But it is not official."

"Lord Tavistock," pronounced Thornhaugh in a stately manner. "He prefers _John_; always has. My brother is not built for titles, territories, or governance; for he is common and unimaginative. That is not an insult, mind you, but an accurate assessment of his character. He is happier as a commoner, don't you see? content with the plainer pleasures in which neither I nor Bedford could ever find joy. And speak of the devil, I cannot but wonder why _his Grace_ has not been similarly disavowed, nor suffered an equivalent loss of dignity in life as I have in death."

"I doubt the answer will satisfy you," said Richard, "as the reasoning can be summed up in a single word: pity."

"Pity," Thornhaugh repeated bitterly. "Oh, the irony! that ol' Prinny despised his own father yet felt some bit of warmth and compassion for mine." He spied the half-full decanter upon the side table. "I should like a glass of that, Darcy. May I?"

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "Are you joking?"

"Do I appear jovial?"

With a sigh, Darcy moved to set the container well out of reach, saying as he did so, "Pity is the lowest tier of compassion, and perhaps the most contemptible feeling a man can have for himself. John has affirmed the scandal broke your father beyond repair. Wherever Bedford is, he is tortured, fixed in a hellish existence no man of such inflated self-importance ever imagined for himself. He might indeed prefer death over the humiliation your journals precipitated, a fear of biblical damnation perhaps the only thing staying his hand. I daresay he is as friendless as you are, if not more so. Is that not comfort enough?"

Thornhaugh shouted, "Is he sick! Does it hurt when he breathes? Is he skin and bones? Has he been scrapped from history, wiped clear from the books as if he were never born?"

"And what have you done to earn a place in history?" Darcy challenged. "Your father was an actual leader. Lives were altered by virtue of his statutes, some even for the better—but _you_? My chambermaids contribute more in a day than you have in a lifetime."

Thornhaugh scowled, then reached out. "Hand me that bottle."

"This one?" Darcy held up the vintage, stated its perceived value, then poured what remained into the ashen fireplace. "Glass of water coming right up. Richard, I beg you state your business with Thornhaugh lest he melts into a pathetic pool of defeatism. Have you any encouragement to offer?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. If he is willing to hear it."

Thornhaugh sneered, "I can hardly wait," and grudgingly accepted the offered water glass, gulping down a good portion as Richard expounded:

"There is a chance your memory can be revived, along with your name, your position, your very life, and at little cost but a trip to Westminster. Present yourself. Show them you still live."

"You believe it that simple? Too many years have passed, not a portrait remains, and I am scarcely recognizable. Not one among them would believe me, nor admit it if they did."

"His Majesty would. He remembers you well, and fondly."

"Fondly! He sanctioned the murder charge! Sent the Runners after me!"

"Because he had to, not because he wished it. The Powers buckled under the pressure—"

"Applied by bloody Bedford!"

"—but you were officially vindicated just a year later."

"I know this, Matlock. My man kept me well informed of everything while I was abroad. Mr. Reddy never failed me, always came through for me—that is, before Bedford finally had him butchered."

"Reddy was slain by common outlaws. There is nothing tying Bedford to that incident."

"Nor was there an inquiry! or even a burial! Reddy's corpse was used as kindling along with the wreckage! Good God! How is a man who lived the hell of Waterloo as naïve as" (motioning to Darcy) — "the bloody landlords!"

Darcy acknowledged his cheap insult with a cold glare, replying, "Since you are all-knowing, you know likewise how hard prosecution fought for a posthumous conviction and would have succeeded, had your favorite flash-house not provided a water-tight alibi."

"Which Madam la Croix and her girls consistently upheld," Richard subjoined. "I hear they still talk about you: 'Oh, how we miss ol' Thorny! What a laugh he was! Best trick in Town!' Meanwhile, Lord Somerset's death remains unsolved, the case stone cold. There was more evidence in your journals—circumstantial as it was—pinning Bedford to the crime than yourself."

"Circumstantial, bollocks! My journals were mere documentation of all that was common knowledge. Bystanders abound in the heart of ol' London Town, and Somerset practically begged to be made an example of, his loose tongue completely unchecked at his drunkest. From Westminster to Whitechapel was he heard bellowing about Bedford, of his skimming and bribery, and of plans to extort him. They knew Somerset owed every den in St. James' and every Shylock in Stamford Hill. What's more, they knew the duke's connections, and how potential liabilities were historically dealt with."

"Speculation, Thornhaugh. Officially."

"The _truth_, Matlock! Categorically! They had mountains of evidence collected over a dozen years, half of which I personally handed over; but in the end, Bedford either paid them off or threatened to take them down with him. The whole sodding capital swims in corruption as the righteous few turn a blind eye."

"And you," added Darcy, "swam right alongside them."

"I played by my own rules," the man growled. "Never theirs."

Said Richard, "At any rate, your father narrowly escaped the gallows."

"Which is no surprise. He has dodged accountability his entire life." Thornhaugh then leaned forward, wringing his hands together, a fire in his eyes both fierce and familiar. "Do you know the last thing he said to me? Darcy, you were there. It was during that engagement dinner. Mrs. Darcy heard it. John and your sister heard it. Bedford said he was determined to outlive me. And then he disparaged my wife, smugly, declaring he would outlive any sons she had the strength to bear. You remember!"

The venom with which the last words were infused caused both men to flinch. Darcy and Richard exchanged looks of rising concern, the tension mercifully eased when a contrite Mr. Bridges appeared to announce Mr. Bingley's arrival.

"Bingley?" said Darcy, rather nervously. "Did he state his business?"

"I…did not ask, sir. You made it understood there was never a need to. 'Day or night, at any hour,' you said."

"That was seven years ago," replied Darcy in frustration. "Never mind, Bridges. How did he appear?"

"Er…agitated, sir. And rather insistent. Highly unusual, if I may say so."

"Is he unaccompanied?"

"No, sir. He came with Dr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam in their carriage."

Thornhaugh beamed. "Oh, this is marvelous."

Said Richard, "Must you take such pleasure in conflict?"

"And why not?"

Darcy shushed them both, then saying to Bridges, "Just Bingley then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Show him in, Bridges." And on the butler's exit, Darcy began to pace the floor. "Wish I hadn't poured out that bloody port."

Said Thornhaugh, "Did you not tell him?"

"I thought it best not to. Clearly Matthew felt differently."

"Well, blame him not, Darcy. I am as eager for this confrontation as Mr. Bingley is deserving of my response."

Richard arose to depart. "Have your fun then, Thornhaugh. My business here is done. But before I go, what is your answer? Will you go to London? I shall accompany you if you wish, for corroboration."

"That shan't be necessary. I will stand on my own, no matter my decision." And with a respectful nod, Thornhaugh bid the earl a good afternoon.

* * *

"**Do ****not**** kill him."**

Elizabeth, upon reading John's message (and hearing the credible claim of Thornhaugh's reaction to it), knew that an encounter with either brother was imminent and imperative; for the question of "him" demanded a precise answer as the very notion of deadly violence ought to be kept well beyond the perimeters of her home and her children. First, however, must an attempt be made to relieve a rather shaken woman who appeared quite ready to give up her situation and quit Pemberley for good. And who could blame her?

"I think I had better start at the beginning, Miss Baxter, from our earliest acquaintance with the gentleman (that is, a gentleman by birth, if not by means or manners). You've a right to know the truth, especially now. If you are willing to hear it."

"Perfectly willing, ma'am, though I cannot promise a more positive frame of mind in return."

"A reasonable risk, I think. At the end of this account, your feelings—whether they urge you away from us or draw you in—shall be understood and honored. Of that you may be certain."

And with Miss Baxter's concession, Elizabeth began:

"Lord Thornhaugh came into our lives in the year thirteen, not long after Mr. Darcy and I wed. Our very first encounter took place in London, in our first Season that would also be our last, resolved as we are to never endure it again, and suffering no regret for the decision. We have found infinitely more happiness in each other than the first circles comprised more of malevolence than beauty, their highly conditional acceptance hardly worth the trouble, far less the soul-crushing consequences. I speak from explicit observation, which I will expound upon in my account of the marquess. You heard me correct, Miss Baxter: _Marquess_ Thornhaugh, a man who should be first in line for Bedford's dukedom, not deteriorating under my roof. His Christian name is Malcolm Russell, which is no coincidence, and to be explained ere long. I see you are shocked, madam. Have I revealed too much already?"

"No, ma'am. I am listening, and faithfully."

"And you must listen well; for this tale is thornier than Thornhaugh himself. His younger brother is the man you know as Lord Russell, and with little pride taken in that fact. They are separated by twelve years and at least as many opposing attributes, their familial connection being the only—and oddly the weakest—cord of communion. Their father the duke, once a capital force of power and influence in the House of Lords, now bears the mark of scandal and criminal misconduct, evading prison only by the skin of his teeth and the mercy of his peers. Your own father was a barrister, was he not? Perchance Bedford was mentioned at one time or another?"

The woman searched her memory. "Come to think of it, ma'am, he did speak of a rather infamous court case many years ago, involving a duke embroiled in political corruption. I hardly recall the details, but the case was of some interest to him."

"It dragged out interminably, Bedford's good name destroyed by the end. In disgrace, he removed himself from Society and to God-knows-where, leaving the Russell family fractured and their legacy in limbo for close to a decade now. Our connection to him is lawful but otherwise disengaged, while our ties to Thornhaugh are as intimate as they are numerous, beginning not on friendly terms and likely to end thusly. However, we are indebted, and in more ways than one." Elizabeth raised a hand when the governess opened her mouth to speak. "Please, Miss Baxter. Say nothing just yet, lest my train of thought be undone."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I must now bring up my sister-in-law Miss Bingley, whose tragic fate is interwoven. In the year thirteen, Thornhaugh was known only as the man at whom she set her cap mere days after losing a most desired prospect to a country nobody." Elizabeth smiled halfheartedly at the memory. "Miss Bingley, a woman of single-minded purpose, thought herself clever in having so quickly ensnared a man so high in the ranks. She cared not to scratch the surface, to sketch his character as it were, consumed as she was with ambition. She was oblivious to his unpopularity within the establishment, gleefully unaware that she had entangled herself with a rogue among Lords, a compulsive gambler possessing the senses of a foxhound, her weakness like a scent in the air, his insolvency cloaked in effortless charm, and her dowry his core enticement."

"Oh, how dreadful, ma'am!" whispered the governess, who then rushed to pour her a glass of water. Elizabeth was grateful for the gesture, her mouth dry and cheeks flushed with the reconjuring of distressful memories long suppressed. After taking a drink, she compelled herself to go on.

"Miss Bingley scoffed at the warnings, meeting every concern for her welfare with resentment till her brother had no choice but to intervene, his inquiries made in London confirming all suspicion. Our dear Mr. Bingley, as a man of soft heart and even softer methods, was beside himself with worry and at a loss of how to act; and so he begged my husband for his help. Mr. Darcy agreed but foresaw extreme difficulty in severing the attachment, and therefore saw fit to enlist further reinforcement, men who understood Thornhaugh as few respectable gentlemen could. One was his former schoolmate, Lord Matlock's elder brother incidentally, who, God rest him, fell ill and died weeks later. The other man was himself an eager patron of the gaming hells, a man of profoundly personal acquaintance held as deeply in my husband's contempt, but grudgingly decided could be of some use." Elizabeth paused to take a long breath. "That man was George Wickham."

Miss Baxter's eyebrows shot up. "Young Mr. Wickham's father, ma'am?"

"I am loath to acknowledge him as such; for he abandoned his wife—my _sister_—in her confinement and never returned. But that is a subject to be addressed a bit later, Miss Baxter."

Elizabeth drank again from the glass before continuing:

"Mr. Wickham agreed to be of service for a large sum of money, and the gentlemen gathered one stormy evening at a high-end cardroom in St. James'. The meeting itself was tempestuous, but the only detail worth noting is that Thornhaugh wagered his courtship and lost. One might consider this a great victory and Miss Bingley rescued…" (another deep breath) "…had she not so foolishly given herself to him beforehand, staking her own reputation in a last desperate effort to secure him for a husband. As it turned out, he had grown tired of her, was repelled by her less attractive qualities, and well decided on her unfitness as a wife, fortune be damned. But as a man of self-professed principle, Thornhaugh would see the game out to the very end, playing both his conquest and competitors like a violin, allowing her to try and win him, and the men to try and navigate his destiny. His gamble paid off, but not without consequence to either of them, most especially to Miss Bingley, who quit London a ruined woman, the rumors having already begun to circulate. She was devastated, embittered, vengeful, and never recovered. Of a truth, she grew worse upon learning of how little Thornhaugh suffered by his actions, his only comeuppance the termination of his allowance and an assignment to India to try and make his own fortune with the Company.

"Once again, he was sorely underestimated; for he turned out to be as brilliant at trade as he is at gambling or anything else he sets his mind to. For the next two years, Thornhaugh thrived, while Miss Bingley eroded. She did marry eventually (as did he), but for all the wrong reasons. Meanwhile, God played a glorious trick in having Lord Russell and Miss Georgiana Darcy cross paths and fall deeply in love. Of course, you know how that played out, and in truth Mr. Darcy and I could not have asked for a better brother-in-law. They are very happy together. And yet there is still more to the story, Miss Baxter, much more. But before I delve further, have you any questions? I do hope I've not befuddled you terribly. My own head is swimming with the details."

"No indeed, ma'am; I have followed every word, and imagine you mean to tell me more about young Wickham's fa—about the elder Mr. Wickham, and of poor Miss Bingley."

Elizabeth nodded. "And of Thornhaugh's marriage, as well; for that too is relevant. Are you prepared to hear more?"

"Indeed, ma'am. My faith is steady, and I shall be forever thankful you found me worthy of such intimate knowledge, which I mean to guard with my life. Above all, I am dying to know just whom did Thornhaugh marry? Who on earth would have such a man? And what became of the lady?"

"All shall be revealed, Miss Baxter. My hope is that this account—and its more violent details—will not end with you giving notice."

"You needn't worry, ma'am. I wish only to be of whatever use I can be, especially if Lord Thornhaugh is conspiring to harm or murder Mr. Darcy."

"Mr. Darcy?" Elizabeth laughed. "Oh, there is no fear of that, I assure you. My husband is in no danger from him whatsoever."

"But how can you be so certain, ma'am?"

Elizabeth smiled and answered, with tears in her eyes. "Because Thornhaugh nearly died saving his life, Miss Baxter."


	23. Chapter 23

With Richard now departed, two men remained in the room to await and mull over the next meeting.

Darcy stood off to himself in quiet, earnest meditation, Thornhaugh examining his severe mien with mild amusement as he cozied deeper into his chair. He reached into an inner breast pocket and extracted a case of leather. "The Swedes have a saying, Darcy: 'Worry often gives a small thing a big shadow.'"

He then removed from the case a single cigar, abruptly waking Darcy from his ruminations to ask, "What are you doing?"

"Easy, ol' man. I only want to smell it." He took a long whiff of the cylinder passed under his nostrils. "Ahh, how I miss them. Would just one more make a difference?"

Darcy sighed. "If only you could stop at one."

"Aye, if only…" Again he slid the cigar under his nose, slowly savoring the aroma. "If only those before me could have stopped at just one: one glass, one wager, one contest, one shady agreement." With effort he stood and approached the mantel shelf. "Luckily the curse skipped right over John; and I do hope, sincerely, that it ends with me." Finding the tinder box, he bent and struck up a fire within moments, the lingering vapors of spilled wine fueling the blaze. Logs were added, and he stood to admire his creation, the cigar and leather held loosely in his open palms. After some moments, he let the objects fall from his grip and into the fire, releasing a long exhale as he watched them be consumed. In a far-away voice he muttered, "Seems to be less and less of me, Darcy."

Empathy walked Darcy over to Thornhaugh's side under the pretense of sharing his view of the flames. His spirit was faltering; Darcy could hear it, see it, feel it. An attempt had to be made to wrest him from despair's forceful grip and quickly, but it was hardly a man's place to comfort another.

Darcy quietly cursed his inadequacy—_Damn! Would that we were half so proficient in these matters as women!_ No proverbs came to mind, merely a fragment of a work recently perused, a lyric of particular eloquence thus quoted, "'Their heart grew cold. They let their wings down.'"

He had pulled deep, borrowing wisdom from the ancient Greeks in absence of his own, a wisdom without context, but still relevant to the circumstances.

Neither a look nor word of response came for many seconds, till Thornhaugh finally said, quite casually, "Perhaps I shall go to London. Why not?"

"Might be fun," replied Darcy with a smirk. "Imagine the look on their faces."

This drew from him enough of a laugh to provoke a few coughs muzzled with his elbow. "Then I shall need more time _and_ money. Dare me to make both?"

"Go on and try. I've no faith in you at all."

"That's what I like to hear."

A soft clearing of the throat from behind turned both men around to meet a face fixed in a resolute gaze directed at Thornhaugh.

Darcy paled, swallowed, and then welcomed Bingley in his usual manner in concurrence with a private prayer for him to not issue a challenge on behalf of the sister who had suffered so grievously by her former suitor's hand. A memory flashed before Darcy's eyes of an especially sad visit to Hope Valley some years ago, of poor Caroline rocking back and forth in her usual corner chair, eyes on her needlework as she muttered incoherently, her dead husband's name mentioned in perpetuity. It was a grim period under the Bingleys' roof, but Charles and Jane never gave up, never once complained as she grew worse and worse under their tender care. One spring morning in the year twenty, Caroline Bingley Cotter finally succumbed, one might say mercifully, alone and unexpectedly in her room, her cause of death ruled an anomaly, one Matthew could not but attribute to the heart's anguish prevailing over the body's will to live.

While Darcy could only watch and wait, Thornhaugh matched Bingley's stare with equal intensity, ostensibly prepared for anything. His jaw was set, shoulders squared, infirmity masked by sheer bravado. Exactly what he knew of Caroline's fate was uncertain, and Darcy's knowledge of his friend's feelings and purpose all conjecture; for Bingley spoke ill of no one, _ever_, and as a rule blamed himself over others when faced with misfortune. The one possible exception to this rule was now miraculously standing in the same room, his infamous demise surely all that had forbidden a regular cursing of his name in the Bingley household.

Darcy's cordial greeting was, to his surprise, answered in kind; then came Charles across the full length of the room to where the two men stood. "He lives and breathes after all!" cried he, a broad smile reaching his shining blue eyes.

Bingley's hand thrust out in offering, but then as quickly withdrew on their startled reactions, censuring his own careless action before opting for a deep bow in lieu of the preferred salutations. "Your Lordship," he said reverently.

Thornhaugh appeared for some moments at a loss of how to respond to the gesture, as if he were assessing in his mind the odds of its sincerity, while Bingley regarded him with utter fascination. "I never could believe it," he said. "_Me_, a man of unwavering optimism; to a fault, one might argue. _I_ doubted all these years, right alongside almost everyone—except Darcy. He knew you still lived, somehow, and could not be convinced otherwise."

Thornhaugh was speechless, as was Darcy, the pair of them marveling at this impassioned expression of feeling wholly opposite to what was expected.

"Lord Thornhaugh?" said Bingley when no response came. "Are you unwell? Do you need to sit down, sir? Shall I get the doctor? Darcy—"

"I am well, Mr. Bingley," said Thornhaugh, finally recovered from the shock. "Are _you_ well?"

"I cannot complain," Charles answered in the best of spirits, "and should be unheeded were I inclined to. Happy to say even my rest is restored now that our little son is back in the nursery. Darcy, you remember Alfred's fear of storms. The last one kept him in our bed for nearly a week. Nanny swears he will grow out of this phase and constantly warns us of the dangers of coddling; but, alas! we are a weak pair, indeed. We do try to be more stringent, but then one look at his round little cheeks and sunny blonde curls and we are lost…I say, my Lord, are you quite sure you are well?"

"Perfectly well, sir, though a bit tired and sore from the day. I hope you'll not mind if I excuse myself, gentlemen."

"Not at all, sir. You must take care." Bingley looked at Darcy anxiously. "Darce, I really think Matthew ought to be summoned."

Thornhaugh rejected the notion, politely but firmly. "Your concern is appreciated, Mr. Bingley. A bit of rest is all I need. Before I go, have you anything more to say? anything at all?"

"Indeed I do, sir! I am so glad you asked; for Matthew told me everything, including what you did for little George." (Bingley hardly noticed Thornhaugh cringe at the hated descriptor as he went on) "What hell he might have suffered, had you not come to his rescue! Poor boy must have been frightened out of his wits. We were all sick with worry, the Darcys beside themselves, and in a flash you remedied everything! I know not a single man who could have done what you did when you did, which, as far as I am concerned, was entirely practical and pardonable."

Thornhaugh raised an eyebrow. "You would defend it, Mr. Bingley?"

"To my last breath, sir! That I should prefer to avoid all necessary evils means not that I begrudge them entirely. Your instincts, boldness and strength are astounding, commendable, and I simply had to take the first opportunity to express my appreciation, and extend an open invitation for you to dine or drink tea with us as your health and wellbeing allows. I thank you; my wife and children thank you. God shall reward your good deeds. Bless you, my Lord! Bless you!"

Thornhaugh appeared ready to faint by the time Charles had done. He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose as if plagued by a blinding headache. "If that is all, truly _all_ you wish to say, Mr. Bingley, then I…forgive me, I must go now." He started out. "Darcy, I respectfully decline this evening's dinner invitation. Perhaps another time. Do pass along my regrets to the missus and…all the rest."

"A tray will be sent up to your room," said Darcy in a stern voice. "Pray let it not be returned untouched."

"Add a pudding to the menu and we shall see. Good evening, gentlemen."

And then he was gone, leaving a disheartened Bingley to inquire of Darcy, "Did I say something wrong?"

"Not really; just that he is far better equipped for heated confrontation than high praise."

"And he expected the former?"

"He and I both, to be honest."

"I see." Charles appeared injured as he then asked, "Is that why the truth came rather from your cousin than yourself?"

Darcy owned to his misconception. "I ask your forgiveness, Charles, while contending that yours is at a level beyond even _my_ comprehension, least of all _his_. I know your memory is sharp, that…that you still grieve for her and suffer no incognizance of his part in—"

"Just a moment, please. You thought I meant to harm him?"

"Well…the notion of a challenge had crossed my mind, naturally."

"Naturally!" cried Bingley in astonishment.

"We are never rational creatures where those we love our concerned. Had it been my own sister, Bingley—"

"But you are not me, Darcy. And Georgiana, thank heavens, is miles apart from what Caroline was, and what she became. Nay, I cannot allow it. I cannot have you think this of me, that I have been harboring hatred for all these years, that I would travel twelve miles to challenge a terminally sick man over a disastrous fate in which he played a bit part at best."

"A bit part? You can say that, honestly?"

"When have I not been honest? Indeed, I speak with perfect candor and without illusion. We have lived with this, Jane and I, thought on this, prayed on this for several years now. You cannot pretend my sister was made of sugar and spice before _he_ came along, that _he_ drove her to malice, madness, illness, in essence to her grave. We all know better, do we not? that she was always a serpent: spoiled, entitled, insufferable and ruthless. God, how it pains me to say it, but there it is. Those who cared for her were cast aside as she willfully laid out a path to her own devastation, exploiting everyone she could along the way. First she tried for you, treading lightly, delicately, and you backed away as a keen but gentle hound recoiling from a venomous viper. Then she tried for a fiercer, wilder breed, purposefully, aggressively, only to cry out in shock and anger when the hound bit back. _Hard._ My sister's fate was not thrust upon her, Darcy, but rather of her own choosing. You must see this, surely."

"From my own perspective, I shall admit," Darcy conceded. "But what of her husband's fate, Charles? The violence of it, and in Caroline's presence, no less! How do you not hold Thornhaugh at least halfway accountable for that?"

Bingley shook his head. "The war did Sir Alvin in long before he was caught in Caroline's web. I never talked of it, but have conducted a good amount of research over the years. He was an excellent man once, a great soldier, and a model officer. 'Twas blessed good luck to have lived through what he did. As if the carnage and cannon fire were not bad enough, all of it paled in comparison to the evil he suffered at the hands of his own comrades. It was they who disfigured him, Darcy—not the enemy. Put simply, the country he loved failed him, and amends could not be made. Even a baronetcy was not enough, at least not to _his_ satisfaction. And for over a year he wallowed in anger and misery till its perfect companion was found in my sister. You already know she employed the vilest methods to secure him, that when he was in her power she abused it, choosing rather to nurture than battle his demons. Theirs was a noxious union of two lost, withered souls. A devoted pair they were, but Jane and I are loath to call what they had love; for we know better. Imagine a couple marinating in their own resentment, two wasted years of marriage spent plotting and scheming a man's demise, and to what end? I ask you, what in God's name did either of them hope to accomplish? What could vengeance have served that tenderness could not? And what was Thornhaugh meant to do but retaliate, especially after what was done to his ship?"

"Granted, but I maintain the duel needn't have come to such an end. I was there, and Thornhaugh was in control, completely. Sir Alvin was under his spell, clay in his hands. And when he could have diffused the situation, he opted instead to end that man's life."

"But he did not take it, Darcy."

"He might as well have!"

"Your wife was there, as well. Does she agree?"

"Lizzy is ambivalent. More than anything she is glad I was spared."

"I share that opinion. What started as a duel ended as a suicide, while an attempt on your life claimed another's." There was a heavy pause before Bingley then asked, "Is George ever to know?"

"How would we even begin to tell him? At this point, what purpose could it serve but to crush the memory of a man he's revered and honored his whole life? I have lived that pain, Bingley. I have borne the shattering blow of disillusionment, of an ugly truth exposing the father I worshipped as a self-professed adulterer who harbored a mistress five miles from where my mother lay dying. God, how I wish I could forget that accursed memoir, unlearn that which has left in my heart a chasm filled with ice and rock where my love for him once resided. I see what you are thinking, Charles, which you are too good to say aloud; that George's situation is dissimilar, that his veneration of Wickham was born of a contrivance fostered for far too long, that his faith and trust might endure upon learning the truth of a man he never actually knew. But what if it is not? What if the damage is irreparable? What if he is as resentful as Caroline, and then carries that resentment into manhood; and what if he is thus compelled to wrong others as he himself was wronged?"

"A risk you might ought to take, ol' friend," answered Bingley after little contemplation, "lest we forget the ravaging consequences of prolonged deceit. 'Twas a ball that went through Sir Alvin's heart, but a _lie_ that killed him; for nothing—not even war—is less bearable than betrayal."

"Would you really call it a betrayal, Bingley?"

"Not I, ol' friend. What matters is how George perceives it. But you know what is best, Darcy, as I know you would do anything to prevent him from following in that man's footsteps, and therefore must have faith in your judgement. Sir Alvin was not so lucky in his allies, and in his union supremely _un_lucky. On that field he made a choice, to bear this world no longer, to end the pain _she_ intensified." Bingley sighed. "No indeed, Thornhaugh was never the cause, but merely a symptom of the disease which consumed and finally, inevitably claimed them _both_; that of pride, envy, wrath, half the sins we are warned against lest we rot from within before suffering the ultimate penalty. What I mourn the most, Darcy, is that she never redeemed herself, never repented. I know there was some regret, but was it enough? Was she forgiven? We pray nightly that she has been, her husband as well, and shall now add Thornhaugh to that list. I recommend you do the same. You do still pray, do you not?"

"Every now and then, but less than I should. And again, forgive my ignorance of your true feelings. I had not an inkling you and Jane had given the matter such…introspection."

"Why, because we smile so much? because we are merry? Do you reckon those who wear a perpetual frown the wisest? that enduring suspicion hints of a superior mind, of true enlightenment?"

"Certainly not, just as I know those who frown are not all miserable. Some shroud their happiness in armor, or their love, as if leaving it vulnerable is an invitation to destroy it. But yours is worn proudly on your sleeve. Jane's, too. Lizzy and I continue to marvel at the both of you. It is a special courage we envy and admire."

"You admire _us_?" Bingley laughed. "What have we ever done but lead the simplest and blandest of lives, the height of our day spent birdwatching as we stroll about the gardens? Lord, if anyone is deserving of tribute, I daresay it is _him_." He pointed out of the room.

"Who, Thornhaugh? Now that _is_ laughable; for I assure you he has far more to remit than to collect."

"Oh, come now, Darcy. Don't be so pig-headed. Why else would you name your third born after him?"

"I lost a coin toss! You saw it! It was your coin!"

"Very well, you stick with that reason if it pleases you, as if I believe for a moment you would let a shilling decide such a thing. _You_, a man who gives nothing over to chance, who plans twenty years ahead—"

"I am bored now, Charles, and must therefore change the subject lest I nod off. Shall you stay for dinner?"

"Blimey, you needn't be so dismissive. If nothing else, I would have thought his survival alone enough to earn your respect."

"It is earned to that degree, I suppose, however much more I respect Thornhaugh's swimming prowess than the man himself."

"Swimming? You still believe _that_ was his means of escape?"

"What do you mean? Matty witnessed the whole thing, swore it in writing. Him and a three-pack of Runners confirmed before the magistrate and the courts that Thorn…why are you looking at me that way?"

"Then Matthew still has not told you?"

Now bored _and_ indignant, Darcy answered him with a heavy sigh. "Told me what, Charles?"

* * *

Thornhaugh, sluggish and winded, had just reached the second landing of the grand staircase when Darcy called out to him from below: "You never dove in!" His voice rang loudly through the entrance hall. "Did not swim your way to freedom at all; did not even get your hair wet!" He was hastening up the stairs, Bingley's slower steps falling way behind.

Leaned upon the banister, Thornhaugh met Darcy's apparent vexation with a weary roll of his eyes. "Everything is _my_ fault, even _your_ belief I actually plunged headfirst into that foul, murky, shit-suffused river. Don't tell me you believed it, too, Mr. Bingley."

"Well…" Bingley caught up to them short of breath. "I confess I _had_ believed the official story—that is, until the more accurate version was revealed to me just hours ago."

"Bloody landlords," Thornhaugh murmured, and then said to them, "I am just as amazed, gentlemen, that you accepted with so little study a right farcical fabrication, and that you spent so many years in ignorance of a truth that could have been divulged to you at any time. The Thames, indeed! Disgusting!"

"Mr. Gardiner was to get you onboard that Company ship, and he said you never showed up to meet with him."

"I made a quick inquiry about your Mr. Gardiner and learned the man was entirely legitimate, that he built his business from the ground up and had not a transgression to his name. Wife and four bloody children, Darcy. What in blazes were you thinking?"

"There was precious little time for thought or planning. You needed a ship to America; I provided the connection."

"And put a good man at risk, but never mind. Luckily I managed on my own, was able to secure a separate vessel."

"How did you manage that?"

"Is that a real question? Have you not proof enough of _my_ capabilities?"

"He's a point there, Darcy," Bingley remarked.

"Fair enough. But—but why did Mathew not reveal sooner what really happened, that he—"

"How should I know?" said Thornhaugh, resuming his slow climb upstairs. "Ask him yourselves, gentlemen—ah, there is Baxter at last! So good of you to finally show up. A real attendant would have anticipated me."

"And would have poisoned your tea by now," she countered with a smirk.

"Impertinent woman, come and give me your shoulder. Get me to my room. Don't forget the pudding, Darcy. And good night to you again, Mr. Bingley."

He would answer no more questions, and shortly thereafter Darcy sought his cousin for the full and actual details of that day in which Thornhaugh's death was essentially falsified with the aid of three Bow Street Runners and Matthew himself.

"I told no one but Kitty," said Matthew in his confession, later showing Darcy a worn shred of paper bearing the penciled-in year of the event's occurrence—eighteen-hundred and fifteen—with a smear of blood underneath. "A piece was handed to each of us, to be submitted to Mr. Reddy for this number of pounds in remittance. As you see, I never claimed the amount, though it would have set us up for life. I just could not."

"But you were able to lie for him, Matty? Commit perjury, risk prison or even the gallows to protect him? Why?"

"I watched that man take a ball meant for _you_, Cousin. I could have done no less. It was a deep wound—an infected one, had he actually dove into that bog of a river."

"Seemed perfectly plausible he did just that. A marquess so willing and able to live in dirt could just as willingly swim through it."

"Even after a clean stitch-up, I held little hope for his survival, and yet was strangely unsurprised when he turned up again. As to why I kept the truth so closely guarded all these years, those reasons are my own. A cross to bear of sorts, not easily explained."

"And Kitty guarded it for your sake," said Darcy, who added hopefully, "And you, Matthew, surely must have rethought the likelihood of success in his case. With your treatment and his insolence, I imagine he should make it to London in fairly decent condition."

Matthew leaned forward, regarding him with a piercing look as he said plainly, "He will never be well, Darcy; and neither potency nor resolve can reverse an absolute medical certainty. It is best you come to terms with this, prepare yourself, Lizzy, the children and everyone, that Lord Thornhaugh shall die, and soon."


	24. Chapter 24

**Hope everyone's doing well. Writing has slowed down, for obvious reasons. God bless!** \- Jodi Covey

* * *

To Elizabeth's relief, Miss Baxter did not give notice that day, and to her surprise came a swift decision on the next course of action with regards to her hot-blooded houseguest.

Her plan was formulated with complete comprehension that she had little to her advantage but Thornhaugh's respect and an unequivocal understanding of his character, both of which were crucial to any negotiation with a man whose cleverness could not be outdone, only matched, and only if he allowed it.

It was to be a far more necessary than noble act, and knowing that she was capable of it shocked and repelled her as much as her handling of the Sam Cullen situation. But she would proceed, nonetheless; and though the plan was not infallible, in its success she was fairly confident, knowing with certainty that mere argument in this case would be fruitless, that even the most sensible line of reasoning was sure to prove an insufficient method of bending him to her will. She must have leverage, if only a shred of it, which must then be delicately and judiciously applied. Essential, too, was courage, a trait of which she had felt an abundance since that night, and with Thornhaugh to thank for it. It was almost a shame, that this swell of tenacity was to be used against him; _almost_—for if John's note were any indication, a person's life hung in the balance.

The chilling words_—"Do __not__ kill him"—_were deemed best to remain between her and Miss Baxter for the time being, a matter far less of trust in her husband than of the simple fact that Elizabeth knew him to his very core, and to that respect knew that informing him of the note could only incite the sort of confrontation sure to coarsen further two hopelessly stubborn men. On that head, rather than have this enduring (at times infantile) conflict between them persist to an even more galling degree, Elizabeth was set on handling this particular matter herself and in her own fashion.

Shortly after her lengthy disclosure to Miss Baxter was her scheme set into motion. The two women were walking the hall together, Elizabeth mulling it over in silence, privately gathering every ounce of strength, when Thornhaugh's belligerent calls from the stairs hastened Baxter to his service and Elizabeth to his suite, reckoning she had but five or six minutes to locate the item before their arrival. Surely, she thought anxiously, _surely_ he still had it in his possession after all these years; for it was virtually all he'd retained in the aftermath of Sir Alvin's vicious act of arson. The _Prosperity_ itself had been the dearest and costliest thing destroyed in the blaze; but, oddly enough, Thornhaugh's personal appraisal of its cargo—which included vast amounts of coin—had been wholly contingent upon each item's sentimental value as opposed to the material. Hence, distinctive ornaments perceived by most as worthless occasioned to him the most pain upon witness to their destruction.

Elizabeth made a swift inspection of his sitting room, endeavoring to think as he would. Just where would he have stored it away? In plain sight or on his person were impractical options, the latter inconsistent with his warrior-like nature of confining within immediate reach the sort of objects that could be of use to him at any given moment. And this piece, neither of jewelry, gadgetry nor weaponry, hardly qualified. Its location must therefore be obscure, in some way intimate, and still easily accessible.

She moved on to the bedchamber, searching every compartment and drawer, rather disheartened by their desolation but glad that his new clothes should soon arrive to fill the barren bureaus. With flagging confidence and a critical shortness of time was she just about to give up, when her eyes were drawn to the massive four-poster neatly turned down with the usual foresight of her excellent maid staff. Apparently good Mrs. Maguire had already familiarized herself with Thornhaugh's erratic sleep regimen, and had seen to it that his bed was always ready to be entered.

Careful not to disturb the linens, Elizabeth checked between each pillow, and when that effort failed reached blindly, deeply beneath the mattress—and gasped.

With gentle care the object was then removed—_robbed_—from its secreted spot. She exhaled in triumph, clenching firmly in her hand a string of coarsely textured, brownish-colored husks, in substance a rather unattractive, corded collection of dried seeds used commonly in non-Christian prayer all over India. Not that its religious context meant one jot to a cynic like Thornhaugh, who wore his agnosticism like a badge of honor and regarded no Faith without mockery. And yet, of all his meager possessions, Elizabeth knew this perceptibly pointless article was valued above almost anything else; for it had once belonged to _her_, the one person on earth he knew, with absolute certainty, had truly cared for him.

She stared keenly at the Hindu (perchance Buddhist?) rosary, the sound of his labored breathing growing louder as his presence drew closer.

_No turning back now_, Elizabeth thought over the disquieting tingle of her nerves. Willfully holding them in check, she pocketed her one bargaining chip and made a quiet escape through a panel door and down a long, narrow, winding stairwell that led ostensibly to a dead end, which in fact was a secret entrance to one of the smaller libraries.

A young maid startled at her sudden appearance through a sliding bookcase. Paused in her dusting, the girl made a customary curtsey as the mistress sneezed once, bade her a good afternoon, praised her work, and then casually strode out of the room. All that remained was the opportune moment, which, to Elizabeth's vexation, was slow in presenting itself; for he had fallen fast asleep on the sofa soon after a cup of the doctor's tea and a uniquely pleasant game of cribbage with Miss Baxter.

"Which I won!" the woman was proud to report. "His sincere congratulations took me by surprise, ma'am, as did his subsequent proposal to teach me chess. In truth, I have always wished to learn the game, but my father had thought it improper. Would you mind terribly?"

"Not at all, Miss Baxter. I should call the offer itself a mark of respect rarely bestowed, and if Thornhaugh's time or health forbids should be glad to teach you the game myself." The woman's stunned reaction prompted her to explain, "Impropriety was generally overlooked in the Bennet

household, and in my own case more often encouraged. Not that I mean to assert my father's method superior to any other; for while it served _me_ well enough, the results between my sisters were decidedly mixed."

"There is no perfect method, it would seem, though I daresay a father ought to be as encouraging of a daughter's intellect as any son's, be him the first born, middle, last, or adopted. _You_ have taught me this, ma'am, and I am grateful for the lesson."

"As _I_ am grateful for life's lesson that sex, station and sequence of birth are of far lesser consequence than our laws and society would have us believe. Would that the shallowest of characteristics were not so deeply considered in what is expected of daughters and sons."

"In an ideal world I suppose, ma'am," replied Miss Baxter, who was finally excused for the evening on her affirmation that she had taken care to blanket Thornhaugh's figure and pillow his head before making a quiet exit, her prior misgivings diluted in her new and clearer understanding of him.

Dinner was a quiet affair, William's mood having taken a sullen turn in the hours after their happy outing, the reason purported to be nothing more than a dull headache, which later worsened to the point that he opted rather to retire early than hear music. George, too, had become despondent, and after eating very little stated a wish to retire, as well, and without explanation.

Elizabeth looked into it; but her children, when asked, could not say what brought on their cousin's attack of melancholy, and knew only that he had not napped at the designated hour before dinner, therefore assuming that he must be tired. Their innocence of George's fragile state was perhaps a blessing; but Elizabeth, able to sense that the boy was more troubled than tired, was not blessed with the knowledge of how to help him. Heavily she pondered the matter (both of George and of William) in a quieter corner of the music room while the children played for her guests, Malcolm's beatific singing voice serving as usual to raise everyone's spirits, and Bingley as usual expressing the highest degree of praise.

Ere long came Kitty to sit with her, and the two of them chatted for some time, her sister ultimately disclosing a secret long retained between her and Matthew about Thornhaugh, and what really occurred in the time he was said to have disappeared into the river Thames.

Elizabeth took the revelation in stride, in fact laughed heartily at herself for having believed so preposterous a tale for so long. "God save that man; for he is one in a billion!" cried she.

"Then you don't fault us, Lizzy, for withholding the truth from you all these years?"

"Indeed not, Sister," she assured her. "Has William been told?"

"Aye, but not in the manner Matty would have preferred." And Kitty then explained just when and how this knowledge was suddenly acquired, musing afterwards, "Do you suppose the shock of it made him unwell?"

Elizabeth sighed wearily. "If so, he should be the last to admit it."

* * *

It was now past midnight and Elizabeth lay wide awake, in as much anticipation for her confrontation with one man in his room as concern for the other tossing and turning right next to her.

"Dearest…" she whispered.

"Just a headache, Lizzy," William murmured, adjusting his pillow for the umpteenth time.

And so she remained quiet while he continued to brood, well knowing that any further attempts at discourse would elicit another vexing rebuff. Countless endeavors at drawing out her reticent and reserved Mr. Darcy had yielded far more frustration than success, and therefore she had learned over these last many years to employ methods less cerebral and more…wifely. Thus, with soft kisses and caresses she applied her usual technique of relaxing him enough to fall asleep while holding her, his embrace on this night as firm as it had ever been.

His arms loosened as his breathing transitioned into a low, steady snore, and when at last he rolled away she slipped out of bed, watching him sleep while donning her least flattering wrapper, the tannish one of many layers for especially cold nights. _Though it is improper_, thought she, _at least it is unalluring._

* * *

"Mrs. Darcy."

Elizabeth had nodded off while waiting for Thornhaugh to awaken, his deep, drowsy utterance of her name jolting her like a shake to her shoulders.

Curled in a large chair across from the sofa, she glanced about the shadowy dimness of the room, then at him, reading confusion in his faintly visible expression. The one candle at her side flickered weakly, wax hinting at how long she had been out: at least an hour, she estimated.

Regarding him sleepily she asked, over a yawn, "How are you feeling?"

"Exceedingly baffled," he answered, brow furrowed as he stared at her, his still reclined figure raised but slightly.

"Well, as you seem prepared to hear it, I'll get right to business," said she. "Those letters from Summerhill. Of what use are they to you?"

He sat up fully now, blanket draped over his lower half, his collar wide open to reveal the outline of bone beneath a scarred, pale chest. She tried not to be saddened by the sight as his black eyes studied hers keenly. "Of what use is that knowledge to _you, _madam?"

"I am giving you a chance to be honest, Malcolm," replied she in a firm, motherly tone. "I've not looked through the letters, although I could have; for this is _my_ home after all."

"And thus you have every right to them," he easily submitted. "What a singular woman you are, Mrs. Darcy. Upon my word, this decree could have been made just as well in the light of day as the dead of night, and in more appropriate attire. But if you are sleepless with curiosity, then by all means, help yourself."

She thanked him curtly, bringing the candle with her to the table on which the letters were neatly arranged in several small stacks. "Are they all from Bedford?" she asked after sifting through four or five.

"As you see, madam," he said flatly, treating her just as she foresaw, like an interrogator.

She glanced at all of them just to be sure, saying afterwards, "That is not _all_ I see. Further study had deduced you mean this man harm, and that your coming to Pemberley is to that purpose alone. Do you deny this?"

He stood at that moment, eyes narrowed, blanket falling, shirt billowing loosely from his oversized breeches. So thin he was, so haggard, and yet he carried himself as if nothing and no one could knock him down. "With all due respect, Mrs. Darcy, your right to the letters extends not to _my_ plans with them."

"Very well," she said airily. "Suppose you answer the question as a courtesy then. Have you any ill intentions toward your father the duke?"

At length he shrugged. "It is doubtful I shall find him."

"That is not what I asked."

"And yet that is my answer. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Your word that you will do no harm to either him or _anyone_ for the remainder of your life."

"Ah, I see." He grinned sneeringly at her. "Here you stand at the pulpit now that your nephew is back home safe and sound, but do recall the circumstances of just days prior, and consider the following: To what end, madam, do you reckon a vow of pacifism would have served _then_?"

She raised her chin, steeling every bit of resolve. "My entreaty was made not out of piety, sir. I suffer no hypocrisy, nor a lack of understanding that my hands, too, are unclean."

"Which is my fault, of course."

"I own my actions entirely."

"Discomfiting, is it not?"

"Indeed it is."

"You will get used to it."

"I've no intention of doing so."

"We never do. In any case, your attempts at salvation needn't include me. Make whatever amends you feel is necessary. Pray to your God; live by _your_ conscience, and I shall live by mine."

"That is not good enough."

His eyebrows raised in half surprise, half amusement. "I'm afraid it must be, Mrs. Darcy."

"And why is that, sir? This pledge ought to be easy, and I daresay is owed. Think not that it shall go unrewarded. Peevishness aside, you are getting on well here. The children like you; _we_ like you. It would seem the doctor's treatment is agreeable, that you are responding well, that you are comfortable, sleeping well, eating well. We value your presence and your company; for you are clever, amiable, diverting, humorous. Even your constant bickering with my husband has its charm."

As she spoke, Elizabeth could sense her compliments were yielding a reverse effect to what was hoped for. He had gone cold, his features hardening like rock; and yet, despite her own growing discomfort, she affably went on:

"You remind me of our dear Richard in some ways; for he, too, was a fighter, highly attuned to danger, fierce and fearless in battle, and just as able to receive a blow as deliver one. And to you I readily extend the same honor, gratitude, devotion and loyalty owed to any brave soldier fresh out of theatre. But there is no further need to fight, you see, for there are no more enemies. As Colonel Fitzwilliam retired, so must you. I am proposing that you spend your retirement right here at Pemberley, that you stay with us, live with us, be one of our family, friend to our friends; that you be a brother to John, an uncle to his children and to ours, a mentor to Geor—"

"Stop!" he cried sharply, then checking himself, "Pardon my tone, Mrs. Darcy, but I've really nothing further to say or agree to. I understand I've caused distress and roused suspicion in your household. For that I apologize, and shall take my leave as a just consequence. Please allow me time enough to gather my things; I shan't be long, and I thank you, sincerely, for your generosity, your hospitality, and the amenities therein."

Elizabeth slumped forward in weary defeat. "You will not even entertain my proposal?"

"How am I to entertain an absurdity? You might as well have offered a Pegasus to fly me into London."

"And how shall you get to London, pray?"

"As I have gotten anywhere and anything, madam: by my wits."

"Then I wonder why you insist on being so witless. You've no money, no clothes, no belongings, no horse, no doctor, no lungs, no strength, and no life but right here. I implore you reconsider."

"And I implore you waste not a minute more of your breath or my time. Save your mothering for your children, Mrs. Darcy, for I am not one of them." And on that riposte, he quit the table.

"Indeed not," she said coolly, "for children do not shrink from love when it is offered. They yearn for it, seek it out, and reciprocate. You are mistrustful, and in that respect are cowardly. But, despite your distorted vision, we _are_ your friends, and do care about your fate. All of us."

He was walking the length and breadth of the room, pretending not to hear a word as he pieced his wardrobe back together, eventually standing before a very dim looking glass to tie his cravat. "I'll pay you back for the clothes, Mrs. Darcy. On that you do have my word."

Amazingly, he succeeded in tying a handsome knot despite the absence of light (for he must have had plenty of practice), and was now crossing into the bedroom.

"Mind you don't forget anything," she said, listening to his movements, whispering breaths, the donning of boots, the rustling of bedclothes. At length she remained at the table, waiting, clasping her hands tightly to keep them from trembling. Any moment now.

By and by the sounds ceased, his breathing all that was heard. Silent seconds ticked away, and then she heard him walk back into the sitting room, his booted feet thumping the floor with each step. Standing over her, he said in a calm but confounded manner, "I have never threatened a woman before."

"Not in earnest, perhaps." She motioned towards the chair across from her, inviting him to sit.

Surprisingly he accepted, gaunt visage overspread with the anger he was keeping under purposeful regulation. Pointedly she said, "But you _have_ threatened, have frightened, have brought women, quite literally, to their knees."

"When it was necessary," he said thickly, refusing to look at her, "when I was entreated upon, and just the once."

As she searched his intensely dark expression, Elizabeth softened her tone considerably. "Thornhaugh, listen to me. I see you are upset, that you think I've wronged you terribly, that I am spiteful, vindictive, and mean to play dirty. This cannot be further from the truth; for I meant every word of what I said to you before, and, I—listen, please—I have no hard feelings about what you did to—_for_ my sister. Lydia never talked of it. _Never._ She suffered nightmares for a while, but not for long. Never again did she go anywhere near another gambling den, or St. James's, or even London. She went back home, to Longbourn, where she fully atoned for her wild behavior, and do you know what else? Her judgement thenceforward improved significantly. She was a whole new person! No longer was she volatile and unmanageable, but passive and restrained. She was a better mother, a better daughter, sister, a better everything after—"

"Please stop talking," he begged her, but she pressed on.

"You rescued her from a villain, just as you rescued George. You saved her life that evening."

"I killed her," he uttered miserably. "Crushed her spirit and her will, killed everything that made her what she was. It was not my intent, I assure you. When I found her—laughing, dancing, frolicking like a little lamb as the wolves about her salivated—my intent was just as you said—to frighten her, to educate the girl as no one else could, certainly not Darcy, so full of chivalry, so gentlemanly. No wonder his desperation, for to cure, one must _cut_, and I had meant to work on her with a surgeon's precision, but…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "It was so soon after Anne's death and I was…angry. Angry at Anne, at Darcy, at your sister, at life, at the entire world. I was not precise, but sloppy. I went too far, cut too deep. She never remarried, did she?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "A man did offer for her, a tailor in Meryton, but she refused him."

"And all other prospective suitors, I imagine; for men ought to have repulsed her, every one of us, serving only as a bleak reminder of the cruelty we are capable of. In what little time left to her, she denied herself all the world's pleasures she so thoroughly enjoyed, that we've a right to, conventions be damned, society be hanged."

"I could not disagree more. With her proclivities, Lydia was bound for a hellish existence, and instead, thank God, lived out her remaining years in comfort and contentment. She was safe, secure—"

"And dead before thirty. And_ that_, Mrs. Darcy, is unequivocal proof that we are _never_ safe."

Elizabeth smiled. "Anne would have cheered such a statement."

He looked at her then, a fearsome glitter in his eyes. "What do you want from me?"

"I have told you."

"And you will give back what is mine?"

"This very moment, if you will give your word."

His eyes bore into hers as he said roughly, "I am calling your bluff."

"You…what?"

"You heard me. You shall return the item, and right back to where you found it. You will leave this room, and then we shall carry on as if this conversation never took place, each a little wiser, and proceed onward as we both see fit. My plans may change, or perhaps not. There shall be no guarantees, no vows, no reassurance. And _you_ will play the odds, think critically, discard your fears and embrace the uncertain future. That is my challenge to you." He arose, taking up his cane. "I think I'll visit your art gallery" (checking his watch) "for an hour. Good evening, Mrs. Darcy. Or good morning, I should say."

And not a minute later, Elizabeth was left alone, fingering the beads in one hand, their course texture oddly soothing. There was little to think over. The gauntlet was thrown, and she knew he had won.


	25. Chapter 25

Ben knew there was no getting out that day. Storm clouds gathered early, and before breakfast came the cracks of thunder, loud and insistent, like God Himself were announcing that the succession of sunshine had finally come to an end.

Whenever this occurred, Janie's first response was always to complain, silly girl that she was. How could she not see the necessity of rainfall for the enrichment of the land, the crops, and the livelihood of their tenants? Her grumbles were thusly and sharply countered with that reminder, to which she shot back, as silly girls do, that he took things far too seriously, and then crossed her eyes at him in the cheekiest manner before skipping away.

_Lord, how I long to leave the nursery_, thought Ben, for brother Malcolm's mildness hardly made up for sister Janie's tartness. She knew that Ben had been tasked to look after them; and yet treated his care not with its due respect and appreciation, but rather with irreverence, almost with disdain.

"'Tis a fated byproduct of what we do," his father had replied when Ben made to him this very point, "best not to be taken as a personal affront."

"How else am I to take it, Papa?" Ben asked bitterly.

"In stride, my boy," Papa answered, "as everything else. Have I not always treated you as if my death were imminent?"

"Yes, sir."

"And why?"

"Because it might just be, sir—just like…like Grandfather."

"Precisely. And in such an event, your sister until she marries is…?"

"My responsibility, sir."

"Aye, just as my own sister was mine. You will own that obligation as any property, any article, and remember that an unflattering response removes not a man's duty. Chin up, now! Think of the hundreds who live under our protection, of every sort of temperament you stand to encounter in the world, from the humble Malcolms to the assertive Janies. I know you love your sister, Ben, no matter how much she vexes you. Her censure wounds your pride, which is a Darcy defect you must also learn to master. I suggest you begin thusly: When she says something you find disagreeable, consider that she means well, and that she loves you, too."

_You always defend her!_ Ben wanted to shout vehemently, but instead replied, "Respectfully, sir, I feel that a master ought to be consistently obeyed and respected, and not contested or ridiculed. It is his right!"

Papa smiled and said, "I felt the same at your age, indeed for twenty years altogether, and with the added luxury of uniformly positive reinforcement. But now I know (and have known for some time) that a man is entitled only to as much respect and appreciation as he has earned. You must apprehend that Janie views you as equals, in fact laughs at the very notion of your claim to superiority."

"But I _am_ her superior, Papa. The law says so!"

"Legalities are the crutch of a feeble master, whereas inspiration commands more loyalty than intimidation. It is imperative you _win_ the respect and appreciation you desire, not demand from people that which you yourself are unwilling to give. Take our Mr. Martin, for example. He broke the law, killed our doe, made Aries an orphan and myself about as enraged as I have ever been. Remember how closely I came to having the book thrown at him? to having him shipped off to Botany Bay without a thought or care, essentially doing to his wife and children what he had done to Aries? Now he works for us, and very hard at that. Why? Because I won his dedication by means of a mercy few others would have shown, and looked deeper within the poacher to see a decent man who had done a bad deed, a man who deserved a second chance. I was able to relinquish the anger and resentment, which was not easy."

"How were you able to?"

"By following the counsel of one I respect."

"Who?"

"Your mother, whom the nonsensical law decrees my inferior. How I do thank God for her, Son. Most gentlemen see a wife as little more than an ornament, a child-bearer, a pretty face of fashionable ancestry and trivial accomplishments. That is _a_ wife, very possibly a good one. But a perfect wife is your partner, your pillar, the better half of you, she who holds you to the standards of excellence."

Ben wrinkled his brow. "I am young yet to talk of wives, Papa. May we suspend that conversation for two or three years?"

"Very well, Mr. Darcy." Papa smiled again. "Forgive me for veering off course. We were talking of sisters, were we not?"

"Yes, sir. And sisters, as stated by law _and_ Society, are meant to submit to their elder brothers, like Aunt Georgie behaved with you."

Here Papa chuckled and said, "Ideally, I suppose, but life is made more of concessions than ideals. It is true, that Georgiana was all reverence and unflagging devotion. I really was more father to her than brother after all. But even my shy, sweet, subservient sister could not combat the odd temptation to rebel against all she had been taught." At that instant, Papa looked away. "Nor could I, to be perfectly honest," he said softly, thoughtfully. "It was a long, difficult road to discover that I am not the conformist I had thought I was, that I was nurtured to be." His attention on Ben returned. "Had I been so, Bennet Darcy, you would not have been born! And you are no different, Son. I imagine you will turn on me sooner or later."

"Never, sir!"

"Perhaps not, but I mean to prepare myself, nonetheless. Deep within all of us resides some defiance, whether in moderate or excessive amounts, that we are not always aware of, and from which we learn. _You_ are still growing and learning, as is your sister, who will become better and brighter just the same as you. So like your mother is she, spirited and willful, and as such will _always_ question your words and actions, whether she agrees or disagrees."

Ben could not understand why Papa looked so happy throughout his speech; for there was nothing at all amusing about Janie's impertinence. All the same, he would honor his father as per the Commandment, despite the indisputably vexing nature of the female sex (except for Dorothea Bingley, who was loveliness itself).

* * *

By mid-afternoon the rain was falling in a torrent and with no end in sight. In search of occupation, all four children ended up in the main library, ere long left unsupervised when the nanny was called away unexpectedly. Not that she was needed; for Ben could manage them all perfectly well, stating as much to Mrs. White as she quit the room with her usual (and rather obvious) instruction, to behave themselves.

Janie went immediately to the vast collection of children's books, selecting Malcolm's favorite and then finding a cozy spot for the two of them.

Neither Ben nor George particularly cared to read that day, and therefore sat down to cards several meters apart from the younger pair curled together at the window seat, Malcolm highly diverted by Janie's voicing of the characters.

It was a change of pace from the usual routine; no governess on this day (or for several days, it would seem). Ben supposed it a blessing to have lessons suspended while Lord Thornhaugh was in residence, so long as he did not fall too behind in his studies. Eton was but a few months away, and the teachers were said to be very demanding. This thought was voiced aloud to George during their card game, to which he gave his usual response, that of utter indifference.

"I suppose you still prefer the Navy to a gentleman's education," said Ben disapprovingly.

"Lord Thornhaugh seems to think it not so offensive as you do," George returned.

"Who cares what he thinks?"

"I do."

"Because he is your guardian angel?"

"Get stuffed."

"Just having a go! But I do sincerely hope he leaves soon. There is something so unseemly, so common about his manner."

"And yet he's a _marquess_," George mocked, "and therefore entitled to our _deepest_ respect, _Mr._ Darcy."

Ben scowled at him, then saying in a voice lowered to almost a whisper, "Do you not wonder why Thornhaugh was at Pemberley in the first place? Or what family he belongs to? And what man of such rank has no belongings, no valet, no carriage or horses? No clothes! And what do you reckon was his business with Uncle John?"

George opened his mouth almost as if to answer, but merely shrugged instead, eyes cutting back to his cards. "Are we playing or not?"

Grudgingly Ben yielded, despite his vexing curiosity with regards to their houseguest; for something about him was decidedly amiss. It was plain enough he carried himself not as a man of distinction ought, this singular, so-called Lord who'd spent years away from England, across the sea, living in America, intermingling with savages, a man who so casually talks of _pissing away_ rank and fortune…

George had to once again alert him to their game; and though Ben's thoughts remained preoccupied he obliged him, assuming his cousin unprepared to properly examine Thornhaugh with any objectivity. After several more plays and a lengthy silence Ben tried a new subject. "I saw a maid collecting candles from our room, earlier. Is it back to normal then?...I mean, back to the way it was?"

"One candle," George replied. "That's my threshold. More than that presents a fire hazard."

"Oh. New rule then. Did Papa make it, or Uncle Matty?

"Neither. And it's not a rule; just a warning."

"Whose warning?"

"His Lordship's."

"What, Thornhaugh! When?"

"When he paid me a visit, this morning."

"Paid you a _visit_?"

"Well, sort of. I was woke by a knock and—"

"What time?"

"Around four o'clock."

"Before dawn! What the blazes!"

"Exactly. It was the glow that drew his attention. Just three candles burning at that hour, but he still noticed."

"What's he up and about so early for?"

"Uncle Matty says he doesn't sleep well."

"Did Uncle answer the knock?"

George shook his head. "He had returned to his own room already. It is just me, alone, and my heart's pounding. For a moment I think I might have dreamt it, but then I hear the knock again. 'Who's there?' I say. Thornhaugh announces himself and apologizes for waking me. When I open the door, he's standing there in full dress, with a serious but curious look on his face. I say, 'my Lord?' and then he greets me and asks kindly to have a peek inside. I open the door wider, but he never enters, only looks about the room, counts all the candles, and then…_then_ he tells me a story about a madam in East London who always kept too many alight."

"A _madam_? Do you mean…?"

George nodded. "He says he tried to caution her, but she didn't listen, and eventually her establishment caught fire and burned to the ground, killing three of her girls."

Ben's mouth fell open. "He…he visits houses of…ill repute?"

"Blimey, Ben Darcy! Of what significance is that?"

"Critical! for what sort of a gentleman—what _noble_ calls on so low a place and actually admits to it? And how unfitting to relate such a tale to a boy not twelve."

"Not a _tale_! not something he heard about from someone else, or something he read in a novel. He was there! just like Crusoe but in real life."

Ben nodded, but remained dubious. "What else did he say?"

"That I mustn't fear the dark, that those who think themselves helpless in darkness are not using it properly, and that fire is far more hostile than friendly. 'You may disagree,' he said, 'but your gardens most assuredly would not.' And then he went away."

"Singular man," Ben grumbled. "He ought to mind his own affairs and stay out of ours. What's he to do with it?"

"What have _you_ to do with it? It was _my_ door he knocked on."

"It's my room, too!"

"You still sleep in the nursery."

"Only because I've not been given leave to come back."

George rolled his eyes. "Must you wait on permission for everything?"

Ben made to retort, when a sharp giggle disrupted their conversation and their game. He and George looked over to see Janie skipping up to their table, singing, "I know something you don't know!"

"That sisters are a nuisance?" Ben quipped. "Old news, I assure you—_ouch!"_ He grabbed the ear that Janie had so rudely flicked. "What is it!"

"Lord Thornhaugh," she said, "is a widower."

"As are thousands of men the world over," Ben replied dismissively, while George asked with more interest: "How do you know that?"

"Oh, never mind," she crowed. "We ladies have our secrets."

"I have a better one," said George, smirking at Janie's deep scowl.

"You do not," she said.

"But I do. And it's about Thornhaugh, too."

"What is it?"

"Never mind. We gentlemen are above gossip."

"But I told you first! Now it's your turn!" And with that, Janie snatched the cards from George's hand.

"Hey! I was winning!"

George grabbed at the cards, but was thwarted by Janie's quick movements as she confessed, "It was Malcolm who told me, and Mamma who told _him_. Right, lamb chop?"

Malcolm raised his eyes from his book, saying nervously, "We're not supposed to talk of it. Mamma said it were delicate."

Janie laughed again and dashed away as George gave chase, Ben waiting with little patience for their nonsense to end.

"Very well," George huffed after a last failed attempt to retrieve his cards. "Thornhaugh is…Uncle John's brother."

The three siblings gaped at him in shock. "His _brother_," whispered Malcolm, discarding his book in preference for this more enthralling narrative.

"But that cannot be," said Janie with less certainty than Ben, who confidently cited public record as stone-solid evidence that Bedford's firstborn has been dead for years.

"The record is a lie," George stated firmly and conclusively. "Thornhaugh said so himself."

"Perchance _he _isthe liar," Ben submitted. "He's probably not a Lord at all. I'll wager he's an imposter! A complete fraud!"

Janie raised an eyebrow. "Are you still cross about that race?"

Color rose to Ben cheeks. "I was never cross!" he shouted angrily.

"You were, though," she said. "You hate that he bested Papa and now think ill of him."

"The man is _vulgar_,"Ben argued heatedly_._ "He talks and behaves not as any Lord I've ever heard of or met. And I've met several, being the eldest, far more than any of you. It would surprise me not a whit to learn he's been lying from the start."

"So _that's_ why Uncle John called on him," Janie posited. "A family reunion, but in secret!"

"That makes him _our_ family, too," cried Malcolm with delight. "We've another uncle!"

"Thornhaugh is _not_ our uncle," said Ben, "nor is this connection to Uncle John confirmed."

George stared at him befuddled, then asking Janie, "Is this what is meant by 'willful ignorance?'"

Janie nodded a yes, which impelled George to say emphatically, "I was there, Ben. I overhead their conversation, and they each acknowledged—"

"You spied on them?" Ben censured.

"Again," said George frustratedly, "you are fixed on the thing that is least important. There is more and, er, better knowledge to be gained than what Miss Baxter says, you know."

"_Better_ knowledge?"

"Yes! Instead of laying _all_ the doubt and blame on Thornhaugh, you might reserve a bit of both for your parents."

Ben shot from his seat. "What!"

"Is withholding the truth not the same as a lie?"

"Our parents are not liars!" cried Ben. "Take it back!"

George stood his ground as Ben charged up to him, stopping just short of a collision. "Treacherous bloody ingrate!" he shouted, thrusting a finger in George's face.

"Brother," Malcolm softly interjected, "Please don't say such things. He didn't mean it that way, did you, George?"

If Malcolm's words did not resolve the dispute, Ben's anger at least was diffused. For he stood down, George doing likewise as he replied, rather contritely, "I never said they don't mean well. Perhaps they do."

"_Perhaps?_" said Ben. "How can you doubt it? For what _reasons_, to what _purpose_ have they to be deliberately deceptive?"

George shrugged. "For their _own_ reasons and to their _own_ purpose. That's just how things are."

"I don't understand," said Malcolm.

"Because _you_ are too kind and trusting. You had better smarten up, Malcolm, or else. You believe the truth is always best, do you not?"

Malcolm nodded.

"Well, the only way to know the _truth_ is to seek it out ourselves. Either that or stay blind, only trusting _their_ word, those who may not give a toss about you really."

"What are you on about?" Ben wearily rejoined.

"Tell me his name then," said George.

"Whose name?"

"Bedford's long dead heir, of course. Uncle Darcy must have told you."

"I don't think so. I never thought to ask."

"And he never showed you this _record_ either, did he?"

"Nor did I ask to see the ruddy record. Though _you_ may doubt it, George, I know my father's word to be good enough."

George sprinted away, across the room and up the spiral staircase that allowed access to the second story of books. "I've seen the record for myself! Went and found it yesterday, while you lot were napping!" From a high shelf he removed a thin volume, then flipping directly to a marked page shouted down to them, "He is listed here, plain as anything: 'Malcolm Nathanial David Russell, Marquess of Thorn—'"

"Malcolm!" cried the eight-year-old. "But that's _my_ name!"

"Marquess of _Thornhaugh_," George stressed, "died in the year fifteen, cause not listed. This directory is dated five years ago, and other editions confirm it. Uncle John called the man brother! I heard it with my own ears! Clearly he's not dead, only sick. So…"

Ben called up, "Papa's talked of men declared legally dead, like Lord Somerset. Look him up, George."

"Here he is," said George after thumbing through the text. "Henry Beaufort, Earl of Somerset, listed as deceased but no date."

"Because his remains were found deep in the moors," said Ben, "a full two years after he disappeared. Papa says there's no way to know when it happened, and that the murderer was never found."

"How mysterious!" cried Janie. "Go back to Thornhaugh, George. Is his wife listed, too?"

George flipped again and read further. "Yes! Her name is—_was_ Anne de Bourgh, who died the same year as him, in the same month—and only days apart!"

"de Bourgh!" cried Janie and Ben, the latter bounding up the stairs, "Incredible!"

"Why?" said George. "Who is Anne de Bourgh?"

"Our cousin! Let me see." Ben grabbed the book to verify it himself, affirming that the de Bourgh name was one of the oldest and most distinguished in Kent. Schooled thoroughly on his family history, he then summarized the de Bourgh connection to the Fitzwilliams and Darcys, the forming of an alliance through marriage, and of Lady Catherine de Bourgh's design to strengthen that alliance "—by forming her daughter Anne for Papa without either's consent. Papa would not agree to the engagement and married our mother instead."

"Lord Thornhaugh and our own cousin," said Janie. "How did that come about, I wonder?"

Ben pondered the matter heavily. He passed the record back to George, who then placed it back in place on the shelf, saying, "Thornhaugh said he and Mr. Darcy go back some years."

"Mamma was right!" cried Malcolm happily. "They really are friends!"

While the boy cheered, Ben and George continued mulling things over, the latter musing aloud, "Thornhaugh must have taken Anne when Uncle refused her."

Malcolm shouted up, "Is he our cousin then?"

"Shhhh! He is a connection by marriage," Ben answered, "nothing more."

"Keep your voice down, lamb chop," whispered Janie.

"Sorry."

George searched Ben's expression. "What's that look about?"

"It's worse than I thought," said Ben. "Lord Thornhaugh's no imposter—the man's an outcast! a prodigal son removed from society, from family, from the whole world, thought to be dead because he _ought_ to be dead! He came here to see Uncle John and was rejected, wasn't he?"

"Not…really. That is, not harshly."

"Because Uncle John is decent and kind, but he would not receive his own brother at Summerhill. He's a scoundrel, and our parents know it! Uncle Matty and probably Aunt Kitty, too! They all know everything and thought it best not to tell us."

"If he is such a scoundrel," said Janie, "why are they helping him?"

"Because he's dying and has no one else, and because our uncle is a doctor," Ben answered confidently. "Oh, Papa! Mamma! What if he's dangerous? What if _he_ murdered Lord Somerset? What if he killed his own wife? What if…?"

"He means no harm," said George. "He wishes to find the duke."

"Bedford! Another disgrace better off dead. Like father, like son!"

"You don't know that."

"Now who's denying the truth? It's all so clear to me now. All the evidence indicates…"

The boys suddenly heard a sniffle, and then looked down to see Malcolm weeping quietly as Janie held him to her, trying to console him.

"What's the matter with him?" asked Ben.

Malcolm pulled away, tears still spilling from his eyes. "Poor Uncle Thornhaugh."

"Don't call him that," Ben admonished. "Malcolm, you must promise to breathe not a word about this, understand?"

Malcolm nodded, wiping his tears away, and the children each made a promise not to reveal what they knew to anyone else, with Ben praying to himself that his parents had not made a grave error in judgement, and that Thornhaugh would either depart or expire before too long.


	26. Chapter 26

Three days later, Darcy was at his desk composing the letters necessary to resolve a vexing (perchance ominous) dilemma.

Early that morning came word of a post coach attacked and robbed of its cargo, which included several parcels en route to Pemberley House. Action was taken directly; for as Thornhaugh's new wardrobe and signature handkerchiefs were due for arrival, the orders, deduced to be among the stolen, would surely have to be remade. It was with a heavy but hopeful heart that Darcy sent Miss Baxter to convey the unfortunate news along with a fresh supply of standard, nondescript tissues, assuring that the delay should be brief, conceivably no longer than a fortnight, nonetheless a long stretch to one who so valued his time; and though she was sincere in her account that the news was taken well, Thornhaugh's untouched breakfast tray inferred otherwise.

While hard at work, Darcy's attention could not but wander to another disheartening matter, that being his nephew, or more plainly the fresh turn his countenance had taken, an unmistakable air of coldness and mistrust surely owed to recent events, to the fire, his abduction, Cullen's evil misuse, and to his witnessing that man's brutal (but vital) end from which no child could easily recover. On that head, Darcy feared George now hardened to a world believed to contain more evil than good, that he no longer was able to discern from those who genuinely cared and desired the best for him. But what could be done? How could the boy be convinced that the business with Cullen was an anomaly, an isolated occurrence, and not the standard machinations of mankind?

_It hardly helps_, Darcy had considered, _to have an abject cynic under my roof_, a man who had spent his life striving not for God's excellence, but rather played and lived among His lowest examples, a man who saw Creation as the hell it was and not for the paradise it could be. This point was made to Elizabeth during a collective reappraisal of their current situation, to which she countered, "Our resident devil intuited the threat to our nephew that no angel could have," and Darcy had no retort to make but a deep sigh, followed by the tucking of a stray curl behind her ear.

Despite their ardent love for one another, contention remained a constant in their marriage, having often ignited passion, sometimes anger, but never a lasting bitterness. They talked of Thornhaugh's intent to go to London, Lizzy's motherly heart full of concern that the journey would kill him, while Darcy argued that purpose—whether attainable or not—was all that kept some men alive, and therefore ought never to be discouraged. Despite their conflicting views, the couple desired essentially the same thing for their guest in the (supposed) last stage of his tortuous existence, that being redemption, and each refusing, despite all improbability, to lose faith.

And Darcy was as determined to sustain that same faith in George, despite the boy's evident resolve to try his patience more than ever, not so much by his actions than his attitude. Of late it was felt acutely, merely by speech and aspect, traces of a much-reviled nature Darcy desperately wished to order away as he could almost everything else that displeased him. Again he had denied George's request to take on a particular horse far exceeding the boy's ability, his _Wickham-esque_ form of bargaining effectively spoiling Darcy's willingness to compromise not a minute into negotiations; for instead of a sincere, gentlemanly approach, George had made the fatal error of employing gravely familiar tactics to try and win him over, to _manipulate_ his feelings. As if the impulse were ingrained, George labored to charm and flatter him, and when that effort failed stir his sympathies in the same manner so commonly practiced by his namesake, methods which served only to fortify Darcy's own stubborn resolve, even threaten a prohibition from the stables altogether. George's response was to then throw at him an expression of thinly veiled antipathy, stiffly agreeing to his terms before asking respectfully to be excused.

Such were how things currently stood between them on this otherwise lovely day, sustaining the dull ache in Darcy's chest until his letters were signed and sealed. He then stood and gained the window to observe George at croquet with his three cousins, behaving as an eleven-year-old ought, smiling and laughing, and not sneering or scheming.

His thoughts traveled to their most recent and ugliest encounter in the barn just hours ago, which had been meant as a genuine attempt at reconciliation. George was grooming Perseus in his stall, quite immersed in the occupation when Darcy happened upon him. Conversation began affably enough, but it took only his mild correction of George's brushing technique to inexplicably provoke the boy's casting of a wild accusation, something about how horribly he treated the grooms and how they all feared him. It was nonsensical, irrational, and Darcy all but raged in his response, too injured and affronted to ask George why he suddenly felt him some sort of tyrant. Sharply he had sent the boy out of his sight lest anger got the best of him—for such flagrant insolence was not to be borne!

And now it was dawning on him as he surveyed the merriment in the croquet yard, that George was not merely acting out in general, that his feelings were deeply personal, his attacks direct, specific, and aimed squarely at him.

Darcy owned to his initial state of denial, having attributed such juvenile conduct to lingering trauma, to orphanhood, to Wickham, to Thornhaugh, to anything or anyone but himself, the man who had always loved the boy as one of his own.

This feeling of helplessness, that George was destined to hate him no matter what, ran a raw indignation through Darcy's breast not unlike his reaction to Matthew's overly certain prognosis with regards to his patient, who had been showing steady signs of improvement till this blasted setback. On that thought, Darcy summoned Miss Baxter and bade her tell Thornhaugh the problem was well in the process of being rectified, but that the losing of any more weight should require a whole new fitting and thus an even longer delay. Five minutes later, the woman returned to happily report her charge's luncheon request, as well as his wish to hear the children play after dinner.

* * *

Though George had neither an ear nor taste for the slow, endless strains of concerto music, he reckoned Thornhaugh should enliven, at least somewhat, a performance he himself generally found rather dull. The evening thus far had been highly enjoyable as his Lordship, though visibly weaker in appearance, vigorously entertained them all from one course to the next, as if he were both eager and obliged to do so. And George, as one who claimed the advantage of knowing him best of all (no matter what his cousins now knew of him), felt only he understood the reason for it. What was it his Lordship had said to Uncle John in the entrance hall? that he had naught to offer but stories, for everything else had been gambled away.

And what enthralling accounts they were! For the solid hour Thornhaugh spoke of his travels, each adventure having led to another, then another, George found himself desiring with all his heart to live so audaciously, to have such stories to tell with such eloquence, to regale a room or table full of people with such ease, to have the benefit of their undivided attention and esteem. In that respect were Thornhaugh and his mother quite similar; for she, too, drew the most attention at any party, large or small. Vivid memories of Longbourn House still lingered, of sounds floating about and throughout the home, the high spirits and womanish mirth of Mamma's sewing circle. Above that of all the neighborhood women rose his mother's laugh, a tuneful tinkling sound like wind bells on a blustery day. How dearly had she loved visitors, the more the merrier, and how woeful she appeared—especially after Grandmother Bennet's passing—when the gathering was over and household silent, empty of the company and merriment that so delighted her.

To even the smallest reminder of that tinkling sound was George rather helplessly drawn, his cousin Janie's laugh perhaps the closest to his mother's in comparison, and in fact more pleasing to his ears. Of course, he knew better than to admit such a thing aloud, that girls took compliments as a declaration of affection and not simply as compliments. His cousin Ben was, to be sure, a right nitwit in that regard; for his easy praise and silly expressions were, whether he realized it or not, the precise reason he was practically engaged already to Dorothea Bingley, a trap in which George had no intention of falling.

Ben and Janie prepared their instruments for the recital while Thornhaugh sank into the wingback, hands rested upon his cane. As Mr. and Mrs. Darcy took their usual spot on the large sofa, George for some moments knew not where to sit. He would have gladly accepted his aunt Lizzy's invitation to sit next to her were she not so near Uncle Darcy, who was not especially liked at the moment. George therefore took a chair closer to his Lordship, not that he noticed; and when all were settled, the performance began.

In typical fashion the Darcys played skillfully, their parents watching them with the usual swelling of pride and admiration. Though George tried to pay attention, his thoughts wandered incessantly to other interests, mainly to horses. Indeed it was most unfair, Uncle Darcy's treatment of him, criticizing his grooming, always mentioning school, and never allowing him to ride as he pleased. _Stuff Eton! _George was now decided, _and its strict and stodgy routine._ Furthermore, he thought, stuff Mr. Darcy for forcing upon him such a place, for fashioning him to be exactly like Ben, who always bowed to his master's authority without question. It was in such moments that George so wished his mother were alive to talk to, for she would have undoubtedly been on his side. He remembered how well she and his grandmother had doted on him, how nothing he did had ever raised a word of censure between either of them. Never did they talk of governesses, boarding schools, estate business, hydro-something soil, or certain talents befitting a _gentleman's_ education. George was a landowner and therefore a gentleman—and that was that! What did it matter that his cousin Phillips managed the estate and not him? He was family after all, said to be brilliant, far more capable of running a place that a slow wit like himself should most likely run into the ground.

Life in Derbyshire was so different, posh and proper, so fixed on versatility, the study of music and other languages viewed almost as a mark of superiority, at least by society's standards. He remembered his mother arguing the unfairness of such haughty sentiments, that her little George's indifference could not be helped, and sharply contending these "accomplishments," while a fine thing to boast about, hardly worth the time and effort to one disinclined to learn. George sorely missed being encouraged to engage in only whatever pleased him—except anything considered unsafe, of course; for his mother had adored him so. Not since Longbourn, and certainly not while at Pemberley, could George remember feeling so cherished.

The performance continued, and as Malcolm's voice joined in to accompany the instruments with lyrics sung not in English (Italian perhaps?), George glanced over to gauge Thornhaugh's reaction. He was listening intently, leaned forward a bit, spellbound in a manner not seen before, like he were the one held in thrall of a rich tale told rather in melody than words. Such a response George found rather surprising as he had assumed his Lordship more of a sportsman and adventurer like himself, and that he should prefer livelier, jollier tunes than choir music. Moreover, it was the first moment Thornhaugh appeared impressed with anything, rather than almost entirely aloof to his environment and those who shared it. Malcolm's voice was admittedly fine, perhaps the finest his Lordship had ever heard (as his countenance seemed to suggest).

When the song concluded everyone clapped, effectively awakening George from his reverie to join in the applause.

Janie and Malcolm were beaming at his Lordship's favorable response while Ben looked upon him more seriously, warily, and with some curiosity. George knew that, while his younger cousins seemed every day to like Thornhaugh more and more, Ben was still most apprehensive, despite the pains his Lordship took to ingratiate himself in the manner George knew was the best he could afford. But then Ben had always been overly vigilant, just like his father, and like his father too often disapproving of what (or whom) he did not understand.

Thornhaugh paused in his high praise to cough, whereupon Ben dared to risk reproach in his asking him directly, "Do you play, my Lord?"

_Clever_, thought George, correct in his assessment of the question being too mundane to be seen as an impertinence.

"As a youth I did," answered he, examining the handkerchief briefly before crushing and tucking it away. "'Tis compulsory, after all, for a child of noble birth, particularly an heir. At least in my family."

"And what was your instrument, sir?" inquired Aunt Lizzy.

"The violin, madam, just like Master Ben here." He then said to Ben sincerely, "Your discipline is to be congratulated, young man. How I do envy it."

"Thank you, my Lord," said Ben, ever flattered by a compliment to his nature.

Then said Uncle Darcy to Thornhaugh, "Is that to say you gave up the instrument?"

His Lordship smiled. "Rather to say the decision was made for me."

"I see," said Uncle. "At what age, pray?"

"Very close to your youngest, as I recall. A month before my eighth birthday."

"So young?" said Aunt Lizzy, quite surprised, to which Thornhaugh replied:

"It was for the best, madam, on the reasonable assumption that I should likely never meet sufficient expectations."

"Nonsense!" cried Uncle. "Eight is far too young an age to draw such a conclusion."

Thornhaugh smirked. "I think not in this case, Mr. Darcy. My obstinacy was made all too plain."

"Or perchance your interest waned," Aunt Lizzy speculated, "as did my own after too long a period of vapid instruction. No need to prolong that which utterly repels a young mind and heart; for his or her time is better spent elsewhere."

Thornhaugh's brows drew together in astonishment. "Then you—do forgive me, but am I to understand, Mrs. Darcy, that your children's instruction is…voluntary?"

"Oh, entirely, sir. Our Janie took quite naturally to the harp, as did Ben to his instrument. And our dear Malcolm—"

"I like to sing!" cried the boy.

"And I feel the truth of that declaration, young Malcolm," said Thornhaugh warmly, "which is to your credit. And to yours, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. So you are of utterly one mind on the subject then?"

"Oh, we are rarely of one mind, sir," said Aunt Lizzy with a slight chuckle. "In terms of accomplishments, I believe in encouragement, as well as the benefit of choice, while Mr. Darcy is of the traditional sort and a bit more…stringent."

_More than a bit!_ George wanted to interject, but held his tongue, only to hear Thornhaugh say:

"My raising was more than a bit stringent, akin to royalty in that wishes and desires are quite meaningless, a disruption, and therefore never sought after. Of such things as music I was to have a complete and thorough knowledge, and to not disappoint."

"That is a shame, I feel," said Aunt Lizzy, "when some boys take much better to outdoor pursuits, like our little—like our George here."

"I can easily relate," said Uncle Darcy, "and daresay, were it not for my sister's love of music, I might have despised the pianoforte by mere remembrance of those tedious lessons."

"I adored my violin," said Thornhaugh. "'Twas the masters I could not abide."

Aunt Lizzy declared she fully understood such a sentiment, and then shared a story from her youth. "We once had a master out of London by the name of Sheldon, whom none but my sister Mary could bear without an urge to nap. I thank heavens for the liberty to quit his instruction after just a few weeks."

"Poor masters are indeed common," concurred Uncle Darcy.

"But thankfully," said Aunt, "William and I have been very lucky in that regard. Have we not, my dear?"

"More fastidious than lucky, I might argue," said Uncle Darcy with an affectionate smile and squeeze to her hand. "But we can agree, darling, on our desire for them not to grow weary or resentful of either their lessons _or_ masters."

It was then Thornhaugh readdressed the Darcy siblings. "Do you enjoy your lessons, children?"

They each answered positively, with Janie adding, "Maestro takes them outdoors when the weather is fine. Did not yours?"

Thornhaugh chuckled. "Certainly not, my dear girl. Just the one large, barren room with tall windows and red velvet curtains, always drawn. No sunlight. No clock. No distractions. Now picture a boy in that room barely twice as tall as his own instrument. Not a furnishing but the lectern behind which he stands, sheets prepared, violin poised perfectly. He plays, the piece too advanced but he must rise to the challenge; for there can be no objection without severe repercussion. The lesson wears on interminably. The boy cannot know how much time remains, nor may he ask. He powers through the increasing soreness in his left arm, ever so attuned to his every move, a tall figure circling him like a gin-horse while he plays. The figure towers above his little frame, eyes cold and glaring, waving that infernal baton always held so daintily, little finger pointing straight up. 'Stiffen your wrist, _mon petit seigneur_!' and then a _thwack!_ to the boy's hand, right upon the knuckle, the sting of it sharp and enduring, the figure's aim precise with never a miss. 'Posture!' the man snaps. _thwack!_ 'Lazy elbow!' _thwack!_ 'Finger position!' _thwack!_ 'Stay in time!' _thwack!_"

Thornhaugh mimed each smacking of the baton, eyes fixed in recollection at no particular spot, a faint smile frozen on his gaunt face. "For three years the boy bears up with nary a whisper of complaint. Two hours a day, six days a week, his knuckles red by the end of each lesson, each welt a token from which to learn, a reminder to work harder. 'I shall do well,' the boy thinks to himself, every day. 'This time, I shall. This time, this time, this time—_'thwack! thwack! thwack!'_ And then, on this one occasion and quite abruptly, an incident occurs. What set the lad off is unclear, one _thwack!_ too many, it would seem. In any case, his wick was ignited and flaring, the blast deafening, the explosion powerful. And in its aftermath he is flushed, exhausted, head aching and heart pounding. The memory itself is in fragments, which, when the dust settles, is all that remains of his poor violin. The figure is stunned, as is the pupil!—for he had apparently attacked the figure who later swears he was struck repeatedly by a splintered Stradivarius. His pupil cannot recall, nor does he contest the accusation. Why bother? And the boy's father—oh, is he angry! He rages, threatens, browbeats, but the boy stands firm, afraid no longer. Bloody shame about the violin, though; for it was the pride of our family collection, brilliant mahogany color, intricate carvings, purchased in seventeen-forty, passed down from…"

A soft clearing of the throat turned the room's attention to Dr. Fitzwilliam, whom nobody had noticed enter the room. "I'm very sorry to interrupt, my Lord, but you made with me an appointment, and the hour is late—"

"Oh, God!" cried Thornhaugh, checking his watch. "How late am I? A quarter of an hour! How mortifying!" He rose from his chair like an old man, though he was but forty or so. "Forgive me, doctor, I shall come directly. Cheers again, little Darcys!" he happily exclaimed. "You have dazzled me, and I hope to hear you again. Tomorrow, perhaps? And I shall return the favor, you have my word. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, you ought to be proud. Mr. Wickham, I should like to see you upon a horse very soon, assess your abilities for myself if your uncle permits. Good evening, everyone."

And with a bow he and the doctor were gone, the room deathly quiet for more than a minute afterward.


	27. Chapter 27

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had just recovered from the shock of Thornhaugh's violin story, when into their lap fell the arduous task of alleviating the ensued discomposure. Caught in a flood of intemperate, pubescent emotions no subordinate could assuage, the couple were thrust into an occupation for which they were wholly unprepared yet obliged to attend, bedtime thence devoted to convincing their children of the story's hyperbole in keeping with his Lordship's fondness for theatrics. A dubious explanation at best, but one that in time saw success. By midnight, the only child left unmollified was Malcolm, at whose bedside they remained well after the others had fallen asleep, the time spent telling milder tales with happier endings until he, too, surrendered to slumber.

The couple left the nursery in a mixed state of emotions, mostly exhaustion. And with the turmoil abated, Darcy's own feelings gave rise to resentment towards its instigator. Throughout the process of retirement Elizabeth, as she had with their youngest, worked on easing his temper, making drowsy assertions that the story had inflicted on their children no permanent distress. She made him promise not to give Thornhaugh the satisfaction of a confrontation, with the reminder that no harm was intended, and that censure in general only nourished his grudge with the world.

"He will never be at peace," said she, "unless and until he lowers his guard and welcomes friendship. Let us not lose our patience, darling. Much akin to a young Thornhaugh is his older self, seeking approval, willing to perform to his best ability, and in more need of tenderness than a sting to the knuckles."

Darcy himself was no stranger to cruelty, having borne his own share as a mere five-year-old at the hands of a spiteful nanny who was fortunately found out before any lasting damage was done. He had been lucky; Thornhaugh less so. But whatever degree of abuse was endured in their respective youths, Darcy saw not the need, desire, or compulsion to relate in staggering detail that which was simply a fact of life and from which no class, including royalty, was exempt. Just as well as their peers and predecessors knew Thornhaugh this tacit but well-understood rule (which he _would_ so tactlessly break), that such matters were to be borne with dignity, ideally never to be spoken of but suppressed, deeply and purposefully, a business best unacknowledged, inadequacies best overlooked.

Not for ages had Darcy given these uglier aspects of a privileged upbringing their due consideration, nor did he wish to. A sudden chill ran through his body, impelling him to cuddle closer to his sleeping wife for warmth. He held on firmly, further soothed by her deep, even breaths, the lavender scent, soft skin and silken hair of this woman who adored him, and whom he lived to adore. He would keep his promise to her but retain, despite her compassion, Matthew's counsel, and his own empathy, a strong objection the world's wickedness being impressed upon his children. It disturbed him enough to consider that his nephew might already be lost, afflicted with a terminal case of bad blood and tainted innocence that no amount of tenderness would cure. So dearly Darcy wished these notions to be disproven; but the mere fact that Thornhaugh's story had affected George the least, and that the boy was able to retire without difficulty, only lent further evidence to his bleak view of the future.

* * *

Sunday opened a new scene at Pemberley House with the family preparing for morning services, the prior evening still resonating with those unlucky enough to have borne its aftermath.

The Darcy coach was stationed at the drive for their imminent conveyance to Pemberley Chapel. Including the four children, it was to be a party of six on this day as Dr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, eager to see their own brood, had set off early to meet up with the Bingleys, with whom they would attend church, visit, drink tea, have supper, and then back to Pemberley House for Matthew's next appointment with his patient. Such was the current routine subject to change with the circumstances and not likely to bend beforehand, especially after word of a certain violin story reached Kitty Fitzwilliam, who deemed its telling unfit for almost any person's ears, far less those of a child. She professed to feeling no ill towards the story's narrator, but more secure than ever in her choice to stay clear of his company, her fear of his defects exceeding all admiration for his strengths. And to that point was Hope Valley viewed the ideal refuge for her children while Matthew worked, the Bingleys considered perfect guardians in their excellence of virtue. Kitty would not leave her husband's side, but neither would she tempt Fate as she feared the Darcys just might be in their unconstrained interactions with, as she phrased it, "a man as erratic as a lightening storm."

_And who on earth could fault such sentiments?_ Darcy judged in all fairness. It seemed Thornhaugh's residence, like the man himself, would continue to stir up feelings both strong and singular, each opinion of those privy to the situation a true mark of the individual. For example, the Bingleys, in their goodness and enduring faith, suffered not a whit of apprehension or mistrust, as a recent letter from Jane confirmed. Its contents were just as Charles had been that day, full of high praise and generosity of spirit, closing with the avowal that his Lordship remained in their thoughts and prayers. Per Jane's request, these tender sentiments were passed along to Thornhaugh, only to be met with less gratitude and more skepticism, his reply through Miss Baxter emphasizing his fervid belief that thought, chiefly of the critical variety, was far superior to prayer, the latter declared "useless as an unlit candle."

A less tender and more formal letter arrived from Matlock, full of opinions from Richard's own unique perspective. Above anything else was espoused the importance of Thornhaugh's going to London for the reestablishment of his life and memory that should lead to a restoration of harmony between the Russells and the Crown. The safeguarding of the peerage, after all, meant a good deal to the elder Fitzwilliam brother as an earl, while the younger as a physician cared wholly about his patient's wellbeing, finding such travel in his weak condition too precarious a concept.

And then there was John, who lived but a mile away and yet, save for written correspondence with Matthew, had been making himself scarce. Georgiana had been paying her usual visits to Pemberley House but unaccompanied, any mention of her family's absence, either that of her husband or their children, returned with a fairly reasonable (but still questionable) excuse. But this was less of a concern to Darcy than the fatigue read in his sister's countenance so reminiscent of how she looked at the party, only more pronounced than before. She owned to the feeling all too plain to deny, and then in all good humor named motherhood as the culprit, any further inquiries combatted with variations of the same answer until the subject had to be dropped. Though it pained Darcy to do so, for he loved his sister dearly, there was no choice but to allow that his rights to her care were forfeit and her affairs no longer his province. But John's behavior was found less excusable, his apparent detachment unaccountable. Such would indicate that John was of a mind to avoid his ailing brother entirely, indefinitely, and on such speculation was Darcy of half a mind to speak to him about it.

_But perhaps I ought not_, he further pondered. Perhaps Kitty and John had it exactly right, and the Bingleys and Darcys all wrong. Perhaps his children would best be served with a stay at Summerhill, if not Thornhaugh's expulsion from the property altogether. Perhaps these plans for London ought to be expedited as Richard suggested and against Matthew's objections, regardless of his patient's condition.

Thus were Darcy's thoughts employed as his family boarded the carriage. By his expression one would think he were miles away, indeed lost in deliberation, when a tug on his sleeve snapped his attention to little Malcolm, who was motioning for him to crouch down and hear his whispered entreaty.

Darcy pulled back to look at his son, as touched as he was astonished. He should not have been surprised, for Malcolm was highly considerate of others, but was, nevertheless. Quickly he rejected every instinct to correct the boy's naiveté, replying without much thought, "I'll do my best."

This was good enough for Malcolm, who smiled in return, thanked him, and then joined the others in the transport. Darcy ordered the delay of their departure, all but certain Malcolm was to be disappointed, but impelled by the sweetness of his application to briskly take himself up the stairs to the guest wing.

On arrival, Darcy gave the door three good knocks, his nerves strangely unsettled as he waited. Moments passed with no answer. Just when he was ready to deduce Thornhaugh asleep or indisposed did he hear a succession of wet coughs, followed by the door's unlatching and a mumbled "Where have you been, Baxter?" an instant before his annoyed expression gave way to surprise.

"Did you need something?" asked Darcy in a tone to rival that of any butler.

"Er, just the breakfast tray removed," said Thornhaugh, the implicit follow-up question then answered with, "Half a slice of buttered toast, one slice of bacon and both eggs."

"Is that all?"

"The chocolate, as well. Your cook prepares it quite rich."

"Seems a fair portion. Well done."

"Where is your governess?"

"Miss Baxter is at worship," replied Darcy with neither feeling nor expression, "along with most of the household. We were just about to depart, ourselves, and wished to extend…that is to say, you are most welcome to join our party. Should you feel up to it."

Thornhaugh stared, waited, and then asked with utter confusion, "Are you in earnest?"

"Entirely."

Realizing Darcy _was_ in earnest, Thornhaugh's aspect changed accordingly, eyes laughing, mouth slanted in amusement. "Hmm, church," he pretended to ponder, rubbing his chin. "The devil you say!"

"Spare the drollery; it is a simple invitation. Either you accept or decline."

At once Darcy regretted his brusque rejoinder, but any word of apology was swallowed when Thornhaugh snapped back a snarky rejection before moving to shut the door right in his face.

Tempted as Darcy was to storm off in indignation, the remembrance of his son prompted him instead to catch the swinging door and say, "Please, I beg you reconsider. This invitation comes at the behest of my youngest, who, as we speak, is awaiting your presence, very hopefully. As he so rarely asks for anything, I should hate to disappoint him."

"Damn it all!" Thornhaugh hissed under his breath. He shook his head painfully. "My principles forbid it, Darcy. Can you not make to the boy some excuse?"

"Can you not make an exception? If there is no one but yourself to answer to, then you have every power to forgive yourself the offense, and without penance."

"Clever argument, I'll grant you. But—"

"Malcolm is very, _very_ hopeful," Darcy repeated, then raising an index finger, "_One_ service. And on my word, you will suffer no further solicitation."

Thornhaugh sighed heavily, his features fixed in contemplation. "I've only to sit there, correct? I'll not be prevailed on to speak or sing or…be preyed or _prayed_ upon by some insipid parson?"

"His name is Mr. Lumley, who is no clergyman of the sort."

"There is proximity to consider, as well. A pew may afford the space I require, but your coach cannot possibly. And I'll not bear the indignity of sitting at the back end like a post passenger."

"You may ride alongside. I'll have Cronus saddled directly."

"Actually, I was thinking—"

"_Not_ Perseus."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"I have told you already," said Darcy wearily, "and might you refrain from cursing, for just this morning? If you accept, that is. Do you?"

Mumbling another curse, Thornhaugh checked his watch, "ten minutes," and then swung the door shut.

Darcy took that ten minutes to relate the news and dispatch the necessary orders, returning just before the door reopened and Thornhaugh emerged in full dress to find him leaned upon the opposite wall. "Where is the footman? I assumed you would wait downstairs."

"What have I told you about assumption? As we are understaffed at present, I might as well be the one to assist you. Any objections?"

Thornhaugh shrugged his indifference, and with a firm grip on his cane began their walk through the hall in silence, at a pace much slower than Darcy was used to. By and by Thornhaugh peeked at his watch again, groaned and said, "We are sure to be late."

"They'll not start without us."

"All the same," the man grumbled, "I find tardiness among the least excusable discourtesies. Just the thought of it makes me anxious."

"Then may it ease you to know that my son is over the moon by your acceptance. He thanks you." After a pause, Darcy added, "We are all much obliged."

"I cannot believe I agreed to this. Do you know I've not stepped inside a church since I was ten?"

"You might take this time to think on the reasons for that, and in the very place you detest."

"Or I might instead place my thoughts in an ungodly situation with an unholy wench, while your man blathers away."

Darcy rolled his eyes. "Your choice."

"Set aside for a moment your teachings, faiths, every fear of hellfire and damnation. Do you not, in all honesty, find those sermons a tedious waste of a Sunday?"

"There is little point in arguing their greater purpose; and so I'll simply answer that, as an _impish_ youth, I _did_ indeed find them so. Insufferably tedious."

"And felt you no urge, as an impish youth, to resist _their_ demands you suffer such tedium? to employ _my_ method of squirreling away into some deep, dark crevice, until they give up the search?"

Darcy chuckled slightly and confessed he surely would have done so "—had I not been so certain they would never have given up, would have made use of the hounds to sniff me out if necessary."

"Ha! Seems your nannies were more relentless than mine."

"The nannies were off on Sundays. I speak of my parents. Father, especially."

"And I applaud the man's commitment," Thornhaugh quipped, "for an heir's life is not his own, nor is his time. Each belong to the house like the blood of its fifty forefathers. There can be no deviation, only sacrifice. And there is no greater method than discipline to form him for _that_ 'greater purpose.'"

"There is no end of methods to child-rearing. Discipline _is_ essential, but my father instilled it, as everything else, with dedication _and_ kindness. A father must never give up on his son, but nor can he expect good results from disproven, antiquated, I daresay _savage,_ methods."

"Plenty of patriarchs would balk at this argument, declare you soft, almost treacherous to your legacy doomed not to endure by your lukewarm approach to cultivation."

"And plenty of patriarchs," returned Darcy with little restraint, "certainly those who would argue such methods of discipline as a necessary evil, are blithering idiots."

Thornhaugh went silent after that, and not another word between them was exchanged as he gingerly, almost hesitantly, employed the use of Darcy's shoulder down the long course of stairs, through the entrance hall and out of doors to the awaiting carriage, where their party (and a saddled Cronus) were waiting patiently.

"Good morning, my Lord!" cried a smiling Malcolm, little hand waving out the window.

Thornhaugh returned the smile, tipping his hat to the boy. "Mr. Malcolm."

* * *

As expected, the congregation was already gathered when the Darcy party arrived at the chapel, their entrance received with the usual mixture of humility and reverence. Refraining from speech in the hushed environment, Malcolm motioned his invited guest towards their designated section. Thornhaugh nodded his understanding, allowing the boy to usher him thither. In such time, his keen eye explored every feature of both the interior and the townsfolk who filled it, thoughts kept private and aspect aloof. His borrowed attire, though fashionable, betrayed not his noble identity, and only a mild inference of rank. So well he blended into the crowd, in fact, that he might well have been one of them, a cut of the common variety few Darcy forbears would have dignified, let alone escorted.

Amid their curious eyes and rising murmurs he settled into a spot which offered an optimum view of everything and everyone, his pallid, unhealthy appearance drawing all the more attention. His eyes found those of an astounded John and Georgiana, who were seated not ten feet away, and to their frozen expressions he offered a wide grin and a cheeky wink, prompting them to look away.

Darcy, having caught the mute exchange, then wished he had given better thought to the precariousness of the situation and its potentiality for disaster. He privately calculated the risk he had taken, how at any moment Thornhaugh could stand before the congregation and announce himself merely to bask in the pleasure of John's reaction. The notion was as unnerving as it was probable; for as much as sport or gaming the man reveled in spectacle, the grander the better, a fact drawn from firsthand experience as almost every one of their past encounters came not without an audience.

_Or without a heated clash of our disparate natures,_ Darcy noted in reflection. How well he knew the man's perverse passion for provocation which drove a ruthless compulsion to solicit a response – generally adverse – from whomever happened to be sharing his space. To this Darcy could speak as both witness to and target of his past mischiefs, of his endeavors to crack if not crumble the well-honed Darcy reserve. Never was there an opportunity missed to antagonize him, to squeeze from him every drop of self-composure; and so often had Darcy taken the bait, had been thrust out of his place of comfort just to meet one of Thornhaugh's smirking challenges, that speculation lingered on whether his intent was purely for his own amusement, for Darcy's own good, or both.

In any case, that spirit of mischief was deduced in this time and place a shadow of its former self, confined within a body almost too frail to stay upright and a heart in no present humor to perform. Thornhaugh's eyes cut to the two small children at his brother's side, their doe eyes fixed on him in fascination. He smiled slightly, first at them, then at Malcolm, who was stationed likewise just one pew over, legs swinging and face exuding pure and happy thoughts.

_No indeed,_ thought Darcy with much relief, _there shall be no spectacle on this day_, and no stronger inclination in Thornhaugh's mind than to apologize for having robbed the people of their time in his late arrival.

Darcy felt the squeezing of his wife's hand, and he turned to meet her fine eyes sparkling with optimism, as if Thornhaugh's miraculous presence in a house of God was a good sign of the redemption she regularly prayed for. Darcy tried to match her expression, laying his other palm over their clasped hands, and not a minute later appeared their pastor at the pulpit.

The sermon was in no way spectacular but adequate as always, Darcy not quite able to keep his mind from wandering every so often. More than once he smiled to himself at the thought of Thornhaugh at the altar in Lumley's stead, commanding the crowd with the flair of his natural showmanship, raising eyebrows and inciting fury in his criticism of religion as a whole. Thence would follow a sound condemnation of their own faction of Christianity that materialized from a slovenly king's desire to divorce his wife and gain an heir, with a wave of his fat fingers renouncing Catholicism as purely a matter of convenience. Never had Darcy given so wicked a thought such consideration; but then Thornhaugh, much like Elizabeth, had an odd way of drawing out the rebel in him.

It was observed throughout the sermon Malcolm's frequent glances at his pensive invitee, as if searching for an emotional response to certain scriptural passages recited with a reverence his namesake had no proclivity (perhaps even ability) to feel. Though Malcolm was not to be obliged in the manner he surely had hoped, neither Darcy nor Elizabeth felt pained on their eight-year-old's behalf, for he was never discouraged. Despite any allusion to the contrary, Malcolm undoubtedly saw _something_ in Thornhaugh's countenance resembling sentiment, and was therefore content.

And so were the couple, both content _and_ grateful that he'd managed to make it through the entire sermon with his manners in check. Wishing not to press their luck, they decided to skip their usual routine of greeting the townsfolk, a tradition began by Elizabeth from the start of their marriage. Over the years, her talent for easy conversation had retained its superiority, as had her ability to relate to those of commoner ways and lesser means. However, Darcy could at least claim a vast improvement in his own manners once universally judged as disagreeable, and with such practice was now quite adept at performing that which he no longer viewed as beneath his dignity. But, alas! the current situation was obliged to take precedence, and on that head must an escape be made before good Mr. Lumley could catch up, intent on an introduction sure to befoul the murky waters.

Luckily the children, at service's conclusion, questioned not their endeavor at a hasty retreat, which, unluckily, could be achieved at no speedier pace than their infirmed houseguest could manage.

"Did you like the service, my Lord?" asked Malcolm as the two of them made a slow exit from the premises, Thornhaugh using the boy's shoulder for added assistance down the steps.

"Oh, I was highly diverted, Mr. Malcolm," the man answered with a smirk, drawing a look of confusion from the innocent youth, and from Darcy a look of caution.

"Come along, Son," Darcy murmured, guiding the last of his children into the carriage with their mother.

Thornhaugh steered towards his mighty thoroughbred and was ready to mount, when suddenly was heard a hale and hearty, "Mr. Darcy, sir!" from the wide-open church doors. It was Mr. Lumley, flashing a smile of expectancy, and he would have his introduction.


	28. Chapter 28

A barely audible groan escaped Elizabeth's throat as she observed, from within the carriage, Mr. Lumley's advance, their sharp exit from the church having prompted a vocal concern that his patrons were displeased with the service.

"Not at all, Mr. Lumley," William assured, trading glances with Elizabeth in disheartened acknowledgement of their obligation to receive him. Lumley voiced his relief as he proceeded downward, unhurried and unwary of this gentleman companion he was determined to meet. As one would expect of a pastor personally chosen by the master of so fine an estate, Lumley's sense of grandeur soared, though not insufferably, higher than that of the average clergyman. Such faults were seen as negligible, his establishment solidified over years of demonstrated competence, endearing attentiveness to his parish, and a happiness to take orders, three traits essential to earning and sustaining the Darcy seal of approval. And as he had no evident complaint or misdeed to his name, there was really no cause on Elizabeth's end for grievance, merely a frustrated yearning for their proficient pastor, on this day alone, be a little less attentive.

Upon reaching their chaise, Lumley paid his usual courtesies before extending as much to their presumably significant acquaintance, who thence returned his welcome with a slanted grin and a touch to his topper. The gesture heightened the pastor's intrigue as he, per propriety, then yielded to Mr. Darcy his turn to speak, a moment that generally ensued, among other particulars, a ceremonious exchange of names and titles.

But William made not the anticipated move, instead saying, "We took special note, Mr. Lumley, of your impassioned references to some of our favorite passages from Proverbs."

"Oh indeed, sir," Elizabeth concurred, following her husband's lead in deflecting Lumley's attention, if only temporarily. "'A friend loveth at all times,'" she quoted, "'and a brother is born for adversity.' How very applicable, and delivered with such feeling as to be commended."

"Why thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy; your praise is most reassuring."

"Say good morning to Mr. Lumley, children," Elizabeth sang.

As they did so, the pastor peered into the carriage window, returning their salutations with a friendly wave and a merry, "Good morning, dear children! Ah, and Mr. Wickham, too—how marvelous!"

The lack of sentiment in his salute to George, while tenuous, was not lost upon Elizabeth. Memories of childhood, of knowing through frequent, less subtle inflections the minimal place she held in her mother's heart, swelled her sympathy for the boy pretending to be unfazed by this all-too-common occurrence easily missed by those less acute.

In the next moment, Lumley straightened his posture, regarding his patrons with a serious mien. "May I say how terribly grieved we all were, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, to learn of the recent disaster to your gardens and your household, and we rejoice in your nephew's safe return. I offer my services, my comfort, whatever is in my power to provide you as a man of God."

"Your kind letter was received, Mr. Lumley," William graciously returned. "Overall, we consider ourselves more blessed than bereaved. The material loss is nothing to having George back home with us."

"Indeed, sir. If anything positive can be drawn from so frightening an ordeal, it is that the young man shall always bear remembrance of it, and follow this lesson henceforward, that he who stays out of trouble, stays out of harm. And that wisdom will—nay, _must_—be preserved, for the good of his future _and_ his soul."

William's expression hardened as he replied, "We've no worries for either, sir."

Elizabeth wore a similar frown, far less inclined to take such offense to Lumley's ill-informed but well-meaning counsel had her nephew not wilted in response. However, she held her tongue, time and experience having taught her that not every slight required a riposte. Meanwhile, Lumley, mistaking their displeasure for introspection, turned his attention back to the pale stranger to his right now regarding him most severely.

"Sir?" he said nervously, making a short bow.

Staring for some moments, Thornhaugh finally relaxed, puffed out a breath and said to the man, "My apologies, sir, to you and your congregation. I take full accountability for the delay."

Lumley started at the unexpected utterance. "Delay, sir?"

Again Thornhaugh stared in silence, restraint read in his every feature, before uttering, "Surely you were not insensible to our late arrival, sir."

"Oh! Think nothing of that, good sir! It was only twenty minutes or so, a mere droplet in light of eternity. How very thoughtful of you, but be assured I suffer not a fastidious nature with regards to time."

"Do you not?" said Thornhaugh with piqued interest. "Pray, on what do you place the greater amount of emphasis, sir? I should very much like to know."

Lumley, quickly deducing this man of strong comportment a superior, rose to the challenge with a well-formulated answer: "I definitely believe that _patience_ ought to be placed well above promptness, sir, for the latter is scarcely mentioned in Scripture and therefore an overrated virtue. In fact, I am more apt to regard it an effect of boredom as our dear old widows, those most in want of occupation, tend to arrive at communal gatherings vexingly ahead of schedule, often creating complications."

Elizabeth could not hold back a smile, diverted as she was by such inconsistency to which the pastor was surely oblivious. He went on:

"As for the rest of my parishioners, I dare speak on their behalf when I say that the Darcys – and all connections thereof – are especially worthy of our patience, all that we have. We could not possibly take offense to something so trivial and are happy to wait for as long as need be, with our material interest in the family's safety and good…health."

The last word was said with a nervous look at the man whose mouth was still pressed into a handkerchief after several heaving coughs.

"Speaking of health, Mr. Lumley," said Darcy, "Pressing matters on that score demand we depart posthaste. Would that a formal and fitting introduction could be afforded, but our friend is indisposed, you see, and requires—"

"Nay, Mr. Darcy," Thornhaugh cheerfully interrupted, "I am feeling much better now." He smiled at the pastor. "The morning air is fresh; not too damp. Dr. Fitzwilliam recommends I take a turn in such weather, if only for five minutes or so. That is all I require."

Lumley fixed on him with increasing clarity. "Ah! You are a patient of Dr. Fitzwilliam then, sir?"

"And our friend, too, Mr. Lumley," cried Janie out the window, Malcolm quick to subjoin, "He is lodging with us!"

"Children," Elizabeth hushed, shaking her head. Ben joined her in admonishment, reminding his siblings to wait until addressed before speaking out.

"Well, sir," the pastor smiled, "a friend of the Darcys is a friend to this parish. Should it benefit your health to take a turn," his hand swept through the air in proud allusion to the lovely scenery, "these grounds are ideal to that purpose."

"And _you_ the ideal guide, no doubt." The twinkle in Thornhaugh's eye alerted his adult companions of sportive intent, while their pastor read only approval as he humbly replied:

"I neither confirm nor deny it, sir," adding cheerily, "though I do hope my sermon did not spark your indisposition."

Thornhaugh furrowed his brow in earnest reflection. "I attended your sermon very acutely, sir, and can honestly say my interest was captured throughout."

The pastor nodded, clearly taking his "interest" as a compliment and replying thusly, "I am flattered, sir."

"Should you be willing to accompany me on this little walk, just to that pond and back, I would savor that time to share with you my observations and offer _my_ comfort, for the good of _your_ future and _your_ soul."

As Thornhaugh's grin broadened, Lumley's faded, his expression one of incredulity as Darcy intervened in a low, firm voice, "Another time, perhaps, as Mr. Lumley's is currently engaged."

Darcy nodded toward the steady stream of parishioners exiting the church, one after another paying respects while passing through. He responded to each greeting in kind, saying to Thornhaugh as he did so, "You would not have them neglected, now would you?"

Thornhaugh cast his probing eyes round the growing number of spectators, among them John and his family not ten yards from where he stood. "No indeed, Mr. Darcy," he sighed, "not even for five minutes. And with submission to the virtue of patience, Mr. Lumley, I bid you farewell." On that final word, he mounted Cronus and coaxed the stallion away from the scene, gaining speed until he disappeared down the path towards Pemberley House.

Elizabeth blew out a breath of relief, quite certain this five-minute walk would have ended unfavorably, if not disastrously. In that same moment, her husband said sternly to the puzzled pastor, "Another time, sir. The service, I reiterate, was to our satisfaction. Now go and attend your flock, please."

With no choice but to trust the master's judgment, strange as it was, Lumley bowed submissively and went away. Once he was well out of proximity, Darcy bent his tall figure slightly, casting a paternal gaze through the carriage window. "George…" he began gently, and then fell into helpless silence as the boy, with his head turned and attention fixed out the opposite window on the flowery fields beyond the parish, raised his knees and hugged them tightly against him.

"It is alright," Darcy muttered, his worried eyes moving over his children before they landed on Elizabeth, who wordlessly expressed her agreement, that another word, even of consolation, would likely trouble their nephew further.

Not a second later were their concerns suspended and reverie disrupted with the sound of Georgiana's voice bidding the family good morning; and quickly the Darcys gathered themselves to every regard to the approaching Russells. Little James and Ruby skipped ahead, smiling, waving and echoing their mother's greeting, which Malcolm returned with equal gusto, nearly leaping out of the window to join them. With such high spirits sorely needed at the moment, and with her youngest most eager to play, Elizabeth swung open the door and bade her brood to enjoy a few minutes in the fresh air.

All four of them were glad to do so, and on their exit Elizabeth, too, stepped out. She joined William to meet with John and Georgiana, instantly noting the grave contrast in their appearance to that of their children. She and William became as cognizant of their own disquiet during an awkward and stilted exchange of superficial pleasantries, every word and expression a forced and obvious evasion of an increasingly stressful situation. Neither couple preferred nor was accustomed to such artifice, their performance a comical farce of clumsiness and stupidity until Elizabeth finally broke first, exposing her true agitation by calling out their conversation as nonsensical, and declaring that there was too much love between them to carry on so. William followed suit with a more reserved admission of his own frustration and disappointment, mostly in John's negligence if not indifference of his brother's ailment, and in Georgiana's aloof responses to a loving brother's concern for her wellbeing. Given nothing in return but pensive silence, the Darcys grew even more upset, but with, as Thornhaugh had put it, "submission to the virtue of patience," applied gently for an honest explanation, the couple assuming that the strangeness of their behavior had everything to do with the man who had just quit the scene on horseback, likely careering at a dangerous speed down the bridle path as they spoke.

The Russells looked at one another, apparently deciding that they had no other choice but to be forthcoming. With a quick study of their surroundings, and finding no one anywhere near earshot, Georgiana said, "Forgive us, Brother. Sister. We thought it best you not know."

"No one else does," said John, very seriously. "Not a soul. Not even the children. It was all arranged covertly and with every precaution taken but one." John looked off to where his brother was last seen, and sighed heavily. "Because I know you can be trusted, I will tell you; but as a matter of life and death, this secret must stay guarded. Understand?"

"Of course, John." Elizabeth clasped William's hand, the two of them filled with suspense and dread as they waited for him to begin.

* * *

"BAXTER!" he called for the third or fourth time.

"For heaven's sake!" she hissed upon reaching the reception hall, "Can a woman not change her dress without being barked at? I heard you clear from the servants' quarters." Her pace increased as she spotted him doubled over the first rise of stairs, a baluster gripped tightly in one hand. "My Lord!" As she raced to him, her eyes shot to an anxious young footman stationed at the front door. "Why are you not helping him?" she shouted in a voice that filled the hall and well beyond.

"Because his name is not bloody Baxter!" Thornhaugh snarled viciously. "_His_ post is at the door. Where is _yours_, woman?"

She reached out to take his arm. He jerked away violently, with eyes fixed on a carpeted step as he worked to catch his breath."There is blood, sir," she whispered with alarm.

"A fresh handkerchief, Baxter," he wheezed. "Give it to me." From her outstretched hand he snatched the embroidered white cloth, a supply of which now kept with her at all times, and wiped his mouth thoroughly.

"We must get help, sir." She ordered the footman, "Send for Dr. Fitzwilliam! Hope Valley! The Bingley Estate! Hurry!"

"You will keep to your post." His command was calm but firm. "I am better now. And _you_, madam. Still yourself and cease the hysterics." He swiftly added, "Tell no one, either of you, else they will try and keep me abed interminably. Do you hear, David?"

The footman gave his word while Miss Baxter marveled that Thornhaugh actually knew the name of this low rung servant. "Now give me your shoulder," he said to her. Her own breath stolen by the scare, she obliged him shakily, his hand coming to rest lightly on her left shoulder whilst the banister served to support most of his weight. With great effort he rose to his feet, and together they began the gradual ascent.

"Where is your walking stick, sir?" she asked when her nerves had finally settled.

He shrugged. "In the dirt, I imagine. So fast I took the trail that I've no conscious memory of when it slipped or where it landed. Perhaps—oh, do not give me that look, Baxter! I shall ride as I damn well please."

"Indeed you shall," she said hotly, "but I can look at a fool no differently."

He gave her a sideways glance, grinning smugly. "Were I not so foolish, I would not be so wise."

She glanced back, taking care that he saw the rolling of her eyes, but not the smile that came after. "Which trail, sir? I shall do my best to have it recovered."

"Oh, Baxter," he sniggered into his handkerchief, "you will never guess where I have been."

Throughout his explanation, his cough-infused laughter deepened, as did her disapproval. When he finished, she replied, "You will pardon me for not laughing, sir. I was raised to have respect for that which amuses you so. As were you, I trust."

"Take no offense, madam. I freely acknowledge and endorse its benefits. I see how it cuddles and warms those who cannot abide ambiguity, those who _must_, in order to endure, have meaning and understanding of the universe. On that head, every Faith has a portion of my respect, each fabrication deserving of high marks for creativity and relevance. The chapel itself was remarkably beautiful, not at all laughable, and even the sermon drew no measure of amusement. At least, not the actual words, which I hardly recall. How could I, given the exceedingly diverting conduct of the orator?"

"Mr. Lumley?" she said, taken aback. "I cannot imagine what you mean, sir."

"Now, now, Baxter, do not pretend the rumors have not reached this manor."

"Rumors, sir? About the Darcys' pastor?"

"And his mistress, of course."

"Mistress, sir!"

"Shhhh! There you go, becoming hysterical again."

"I beg your pardon," she whispered sharply, "but who was bellowing like a banshee not five minutes ago? And really, sir, I cannot abide this crude presumption of a respected clergyman. The scandal would be catastrophic if what you say is true."

"Then…" he searched her expression, "…they really have no idea of this? The staff, the Darcys, everyone?"

Seeing how serious he was, her eyes widened. "You are really _that_ certain?"

"Oh, I have never been more certain of anything, Baxter. The service ran long, and I was fixed on him throughout."

She looked away, coloring slightly on recollection of her comprehensive meeting about Thornhaugh with Mrs. Darcy. _The senses of a foxhound_, the mistress had said. And yet, Miss Baxter could not help but say to him, "Might you be mistaken, sir?"

His mouth slanted upwards. "There is no mistaking the lust in that man's loins for the blue-eyed, ginger-haired bird in the front pew. And I have determined on assessment of _her_ every look and gesture that she has similar feelings and has acted on them. Perchance on several occasions, but at least once. I believe her husband, the much older and fatter fellow at her side, is ignorant of the affair. But the pastor's wife…"

"How on earth do you know Mrs. Lumley?"

"I do not in the practical sense, but she was easily identified, the bespectacled matron sitting directly before the pulpit, eyes colder than her nether regions, no doubt."

She scowled at him. "You really are too vulgar for words."

"Because I find vulgar truths more palatable than pretense. Shall I expound further on my conclusions, Baxter? if not for amusement, then as a cursory course on non-verbal transmission? I really could write a book on the subject."

"I wish to end the topic altogether, sir, if it's all the same to you."

"Fair enough." In silence they at last reached his sitting room, where he dropped into a chair before the hearth. "Ring for tea, Baxter. Light the fire, and then join me." He motioned toward the adjacent chair, and then took up a well-remembered collection of letters from the side table. While she fulfilled his request, he spoke casually of his introduction to Mr. Lumley, and of the pastor's unconscious but egregious slight to Mr. Wickham. "At that moment, I had to bite back every urge to reveal what I knew, but on second thought decided it would not have been fair—not when the first insult was made with _our_ late arrival. So, do you know what I did instead, Baxter? I ate humble pie and apologized for the transgression. With sincerity!"

"That was diligent of you, sir." Her genuine praise was returned with a scoff.

"He waved it off entirely, and then pontificated on the superior virtue of patience, actually contending that time was of little to no consequence by comparison. Ha! And you think _me_ a fool, Baxter? Imagine…"

He paused when a servant arrived with the tea, Miss Baxter busy with the fireplace. Once the servant was gone and the fire was lit, she poured him a cup, adding the usual splash of milk and two sugars. With the filling of her own cup, she seated herself and he continued his speech, lowering his voice as the door was left open.

"Imagine such flagrant disregard for that which, unlike patience, can never be found once it is lost." His fingers played with the mass of correspondence in his lap. "I imagine the time my father spent composing these letters, each one of them more rambling than the last, each paragraph rich with antipathy, self-pity and utter denial of his own conduct and shortcomings. Now you might say, 'Why not have _patience_ for his faults, sir?'" With the flick of his wrist went the top letter into the blazing fireplace. "Where is your mercy?" In the same manner went the second letter. "Your forgiveness?" The third. "Your compassion?" Fourth. "Your humanity?" Fifth, sixth, seventh…

"Sir," said she, quite startled by his actions.

"I have never denied what _I_ am, never cloaked my true, corrupt nature in duplicity. I never employed devious methods in pursuit of power and adulation, never arranged someone's downfall to uplift myself. I never cut down potential adversaries with threats to their reputations, their industries, their families, nor did I work on most vexing of them with hired mercenaries. No, whatever _business_ was necessary, I had the decency to execute personally, to sully my own hands. That is the gentleman's way. I even had the goodwill not to bring a child into this world, to sire no inheritors of my curse, no heir to impose my will upon, to rain contempt upon, to bear my disdain and give none of my approval, to scorn, to disavow, and then to disregard, to scarcely mention in almost ten years' worth of correspondence!"

His voice rose and the fire flared as more letters were hurled into the hearth. "His wrongs are ten times the weight of my own, and yet..." He held up his bloodied handkerchief before it, too, was flung into the flames. "Do you not see, Baxter, that there can be no forgiveness without an admission of guilt?"

"I do not see!" she exclaimed, daring to reach out and snatch up a single letter from the shallow stack, flashing it before him with emphasis. "Christ forgave those full of sin by the merest virtue of their existence and His own love for mankind."

He gently shook his head in dispute, surprisingly unangered by her impulsive, dismissible action. "As Christ hung from that cross in agony, flesh torn and heart broken, it was Bedford's likeness demanding He prove Himself the King of Kings by rescuing him, by performing a miracle to save them all. And then, you will recall, his remorseless speech was shut down by another, that of the penitent man. It was _he_ who was forgiven, Baxter, who earned entrance into Paradise. The self-seeking criminal was ignored, his soul implicitly condemned, and deservedly so. And the envisioning of that criminal's eternal, fiery damnation would be well enough to satisfy me…_if_ I believed such a fate were real. But I do _not_ believe it, am _not_ satisfied, and have _no love_ for mankind! But it hardly matters now." The few remaining letters were tossed into the fire. "Useless! Even the best hints of his whereabouts are too vague to pursue. My broken body is defiant, at war with my will, and it is winning. Indeed, it has won. _He_ has won, the buggering ol' bastard! Oh, God! If I could only have a year, just one more year to find him in whatever den he has burrowed himself, to then wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze till his face reddens, eyes bulging, emitting no sound but a strangled rattle before he succumbs. And with that fate, fairness is delivered; justice is served. But it shall remain a pipe dream, Baxter. This I must accept. After three years of exhaustive research, endless travel, and thousands spent, no doctor in the world could secure me that time. And Fitzwilliam, too, will fail. There, I have said it. That was not so bad!"

He was smiling now, regarding her warmly. "And so, in the time that remains, I shall take up a different project, a less murderous one. Does this meet with your approval, Baxter? I see I horrified you, earlier."

"Yes, sir." She swallowed hard.

"And now? Are you frightened of me?"

"I fear for your soul, sir."

"Oh! Well, I can easily bear _that_. But I should hate to be feared by the very last woman of my acquaintance. That would not sit well."

"You jest so often, sir. I should think a non-believer the most fearful of all, and at death's approach in a constant state of disquiet, if not absolute dread."

"The trick is in living your hell on earth. After all I have seen and borne, and in knowing of what mankind is capable, I welcome nothingness with open arms." As he raised the teacup to his lips, he suddenly exclaimed upon glance at the mantel clock, "Damn! The medicine, Baxter. I forgot all about it. You must ring again; the tea will have to be remade."

"_I_ remembered, sir, and have alerted the staff, as well. If I happen to be inaccessible, your tea shall be delivered at two o'clock as scheduled."

He took a drink as if to assure himself. "Ah…thank you, Baxter. I expect to sleep for quite a while after this. If you please, have a bath ready for me at six. That will be all."

She stood and curtsied. "Yes, sir."


	29. Chapter 29

That evening, well past the hour of retirement, Darcy walked his lighted halls per the usual method of cooling down after a freshly transpired and especially heated quarrel with Elizabeth.

As far as he was concerned, John's revelation had definitively settled the question of Thornhaugh's removal, which ideally would occur within a day or two after his basic needs were met with the long-awaited delivery of custom-fit accoutrements. The decision was absolutely fixed in Darcy's mind during the ride home from church; and until securing a good time and place to confer privately with Elizabeth had he assumed that she felt the exact same, only to be soundly enlightened to a misconception of Hunsford proportions. As promptly as that godforsaken first proposal she rebuffed him, the ensued debate lasting more than an hour, both of them adamant and unbending, until there was nothing to be done but part company in a collective state of exasperation.

Even now, with his mood simmered, Darcy felt her staunch opposition almost a betrayal. How could she not be in full compliance, now that she knew a mere mile separated their wrathful boarder from the decided source of his discontent? How could she, knowing the gravity of the situation, not be in favor of dispatching him to London at the earliest possible moment? How could she object, when John had so earnestly revealed to them his brother's tacit, patricidal intentions? How could there be a single doubt of their next course, when the prospective prey was but an old, weak hare fraught with illness, rather in mind than body, with the fox's unawareness his only safeguard?

Darcy walked on without direction, insensible to the ornate surroundings as John's confession occupied every disturbed thought.

"_I could scarcely imagine a more beautiful refuge than Tuscany, if indeed that were a factor in Bedford's mind. But I am doubtful the man took a moment's pleasure in the rolling hills and beautiful sunsets, just as I am doubtful he has had a happy thought in the last ten years._"

It was not John's words so much as the exhaustion he exuded while uttering them. The more he spoke, the more regret Darcy felt for his ill-drawn conclusions which had placed his own brother-in-law in an unfavorable a light. He noted how close Georgiana remained to her husband's side throughout his speech, vouching for its every detail, so evidently full of love and support for this man who, though on the brink of a mental collapse, was at least glad to be lifting away the burdensome weight of secrecy.

Darcy listened without interruption, consciously resting the apology on the tip of his tongue while giving the couple what they most needed and deserved for what they had endured over the past several months. Elizabeth, too, freely offered her due attendance and empathy, likely feeling a similar contrition for her earlier outburst. But with the account for which she and Darcy stood immobile a good half-hour, did the feelings of both rise to amazement at the circumstances described, all prior theories laid to rest under their knowledge of Bedford's self-confinement to a small cottage on the vineyard of his favorite winemaker.

"_And only friend outside of England, apparently,"_ John had expressed, _"as all other pleas for refuge were either rejected or ignored." _

Darcy recalled that bit verbatim, the rest in summary while he continued on a long, contemplative stroll through the manor:

"My chance discovery of Bedford's location came about through correspondence began when a whole year had passed since the receiving of his last letter. I wrote chiefly to those considered his most intimate and devoted of allies, and the ensued response lined up perfectly with my low expectations. One of a mere three replies—each a model of banality—happened to mention the duke's love of fine wine, which I did not think much of at first. But then – like a flash – I recalled vintner Bianchi as the one merchant of whom my father ever spoke fondly, and to a high degree at that. So, with nothing to lose, I posted letters to each one of his wineries, and lo and behold! received word from Bianchi himself within three months. Though he had sworn his secrecy, Bianchi knew my good place in Father's esteem, and on that head felt it acceptable to inform me of everything, in so many words imploring me to come and fetch him. I had meant to go alone, but Georgiana most adamantly refused my traveling over a thousand miles without her and the children."

"To them it was just as we told you," Georgie added, "a family holiday abroad. Indeed, Paris and Rome _were_ part of the tour; nonetheless, we must own to the fib of omission. Throughout our travels, James and Ruby had no more understanding than you did of John's core objective, from which we managed to keep them detached."

"_You_ managed, my dear," John corrected, "and wonderfully so," then with eyes cutting back to the Darcys, "My preoccupations left me more than a bit neglectful of most things parental in nature."

"Do not believe such an overstatement," Georgie sweetly asserted. "John needed peace, to think and plan. God knows there was enough on his mind without our little urchins constantly at his feet. It was only prudent that I stay behind with them at the inn on the day he called on Signore Bianchi."

"Ah, Bianchi!" John laughed. "It was quite comical, the king's welcome I received with rewards of Italian vintage, cheeses, meats, ostensibly the correct cultural expression of delight to finally being rid of an unwanted occupant, who had become in the last few years a constant source of grievance among servants. Given such an accumulation of resentment, I am surprised Bianchi's hospitality endured for so many years; but then I suppose that degree of munificence is the reason Bedford appealed to him in the first place."

Darcy recalled John's lingering pause and deep breath taken at that moment, as if the proverbial albatross had landed upon his shoulders, and his story could not resume till it took flight again.

"At the cottage I found him wandering aimlessly, clutching the walls and furnishings. Bianchi warned me that he had gone blind, but I was shocked all the same, mostly by his profanity, such vulgar language flowing out of him in a steady, senseless stream. With great focus he was just able to distinguish an unknown figure in the room. Again he cursed, sputtering his hatred for unexpected visitors before my voice gave him pause; and then he raged at me for not coming for him sooner. I assure you I would have! —had any of his letters given an indication of where he was, let alone a single mention of his physical decline. I can only deduce pride as the reason he kept the latter part a secret; for there is no clarity to be gained from _him_, just fits of temper at indiscriminate moments. It was Bianchi who laid out Papa's symptoms in full, citing his countless refusals of a doctor's visit for fear of exposure. The day words on a page were no longer legible was the day he stopped composing letters to devote his waking hours to acerbity."

Darcy reimagined the scene thus described, of a father-son reunion laden with more obscenities than affection, and of the arduous voyage over land and sea to bear such treatment. Darcy wondered if he himself could have done so, and on hearing more could only marvel at John's perseverance.

"The journey home was quite the adventure. I had thought Papa would wish to know his grandchildren, but he wanted nothing to do with them, his principle concern the concealment of his identity. Moreover, I could not abide his ill manners toward my wife; and so he and I traveled a carriage apart on a seemingly endless route infused with his frequent bouts of indignation, self-pity and acute paranoia."

Darcy cringed anew, once again placing himself in John's predicament and prolonged endurance of this man who seemed determined to drain his son's benevolence and resilience. On and on he walked, oblivious to all but his reflection on what John had described of Bedford's pitiable state.

"He does not listen, only talks, and with never a good word to say about…_anything_. Arbitrary, innocuous things, even pleasant things—apple trees, birdsong, sunshine— uttered in a tone of bitter protest. In the rare moments he speaks of his wife and daughters, it is with disapproval, disenchantment, and with no desire to reunite. Imagine having all the wealth and power in the world, and no fond memories to speak of. He is spiteful of the Crown, the gentry, the peerage, the _peasants_, even of Bianchi. At length he grouses about old grudges from the distant past, all the friends who betrayed him and enemies who ruined him. Just like in his letters, every personal and professional connection is touched on…except for Malcolm, strangely enough. As a sort of experiment I will sometimes speak his name and am ignored completely, as if Papa's gone deaf, too, in that particular moment. But no response, I suppose, is better than a venomous one. Nights are the worst, when he moans like a wounded animal, fully sobbing on some evenings, and the days…I tell you there was neither a stop, an inn, a port nor ship where he was not certain he would be recognized and called out, despite the protection of a hooded cloak and the utter lack of resemblance to that once stately noble, his most honorable Grace who held the cream of England in his palm for decades. In terms of appearance, just imagine an older, grayer, more apoplectic version of my brother, or a becloaked beggar sporting a patchy mess of hair and whiskers, barbered by his own unsteady hand on account of all the brigand out there just itching to slit his throat."

Darcy recalled the surprise he felt when John paused to apologize for the rising hostility in his voice. _"It is not fair to complain so," _he had said,_ "given what he suffers and, judging from the state of him, what little time he has left."_ From thence John resumed:

"Stealing him into Summerhill past the children's notice was a challenge quite easily achieved with Georgiana's help. The staff were given the bare minimum of explanation. They seem to think we have adopted a vagrant; and in a way we have, I suppose. For our _special guest_ we had a room prepared deep belowstairs, where his cries and whimpers are muted and where I have one less worry of him leaping from an open window…" John shook his head in anguish, the albatross back on his shoulders. "I know the arrangement sounds horrible, but the imagined alternative is unspeakable. And my dear Georgiana, she insists upon sharing the burden. Thankfully, Papa did warm to her within a few days, though he is still disagreeable."

"But improved, my darling," Georgie whispered, soothingly stroking his arm.

"Slightly improved," John sighed. "He trusts no one and will abide no one's company but ours; and so the duties are split almost evenly. I watch over him in the evenings till he falls asleep at some hour past midnight. Georgiana takes the morning hours; and then our afternoons are devoted to the children, who are beginning ask why we are always so tired…minus the air of presumption as some others convey."

Again John apologized to the Darcys, this time for his shortness of temper, one of several symptoms comprising his current and constant state of trepidation. "The situation forbids my brother's knowledge lest hell erupts; for if I know nothing else, I do know his hatred of our father has ever eclipsed his reason. Now I fear him consumed beyond recovery, fixed utterly to the foulest purpose, confident he has nothing to lose and no God to answer to. Now you know that my unclever, unkind, unbrotherly behavior is wholly for Papa's safety, and so shall it continue to be. I had imagined—in fact, _relied_—on Malcolm reading my evasion as rejection, and allowed myself to believe he was not pained by it…that he is numb to pain."

John then looked squarely, thoughtfully at Darcy. "But you contend otherwise and strongly so, which I'll not dispute. Your admonishment of me is further proof of your better understanding of him. Nonetheless, I cannot capitulate, cannot be the brother you say that he needs, can spread myself no thinner. Pray forgive my weakness which forsakes him. As for the duke, he is getting on better with us than in Tuscany, though not by much. Every day is still a torture. As of now, there is a discernment of movement in daylight, objects appearing to him as a smear or blur; but there will eventually be nothing but darkness."

With that grim summation was John's story thus concluded, and Darcy's heart thus broken for the young couple roiling in their private purgatory while their blissful children cavorted nearby in a colorful bed of wildflowers.

Through one more wing of the manor Darcy walked, looking back on his and Elizabeth's silent commiseration, their tongues tied while forming in their minds the correct response. But John had yet more to say, his thoughtful aspect holding firm in his sudden mentioning of Darcy's "ever-enduring faith" that Thornhaugh still lived, and of its actuality confirmed weeks ago in a most alarming letter from Bedford's desolate duchess, Evelyn Russell. John related the few lines of his stepmother's report, that of Woburn Abbey receiving a horrifying visit from the dead, and of her stark warning to him that another was forthcoming.

"She seemed to truly believe a spirit had come to haunt her," said John in the recounting of this letter read on the very day Bedford was moved into Summerhill. "I daresay my own thoughts were not dissimilar. Even now, I am not quite able to see him as flesh and blood. Not like you do, William. You see in him what I fail to see. You refused to believe him dead, as if it were more comforting to think him very much alive, returned to England, mischievous as ever. And _I_, no matter the strength of your conviction, _I_—his own brother—had not the capacity to share your faith, even on that day Mr. Reddy appeared from the blue on your eleventh anniversary, just to deliver a gift. And what a gift it was! That is when you were positive, when your faith became certainty, when all doubt was removed, but not mine; for so impossible it seemed that Malcolm could be…and yet— God! what a fool I was to dismiss such plain evidence as that!"

"I beg you remind me not of that event," said Darcy painfully. "And I did accept your argument as logical, that an abruptly paid call from Mr. Reddy was no proof at all of your brother's existence. Indeed I had my suspicions, but _faith?_ Such is strictly reserved for morning services, John. Everything else calls for substantiation. In retrospect, there was little cause to make so unlikely a deduction, even if it did turn out to be true. For all of Reddy's vague and cryptic innuendos, he might well have arranged everything entirely of his own accord, at his own expense, and for his own personal amusement."

And then Darcy called to mind John's impassioned reply, the emphatic shaking of his head as he cried, _"No! You knew it then, and you know it now, that it was all for my brother's amusement, for Elizabeth's, and most especially for yours."_

Rounding another corner, Darcy slowed his stride on deeper reflection of _that_ fervent declaration, which was revisited in the course of Elizabeth's ardent objection to sending Thornhaugh away:

"John spoke the absolute truth. You did not suspect; you _knew_ that he lived, and ever since that anniversary have been expecting his next advent, I daresay with enthusiasm. His manner of revealing himself accomplished everything it was meant to; for how dearly the man loves to disturb your peace and rouse your nerves. Such was the very purpose of so large and lavish a present, why the absence of notice and on that special date, and why it was delegated to his most dependable associate. Every bit of it—the caravan, the performers, the fireworks, the whole spectacle—was done for _you_, William. Even _I_ denied your conviction and thus remained—until the moment he collapsed in my arms—in as much doubt as John, as Charles, as…everyone! Everyone but you. But now it is crystal clear, the message he was sending you in the most spirited, _Thorniest_ manner. He wanted to reach out to you, for _you_ to feel his existence, because he is bound to you. You are indeed a true friend to him, Fitzwilliam Darcy, and he to you. This is as plain a fact as any; but out of general principle, you will not own it, will refute and reject such an unwelcome sentiment in the most insufferable, _Darciest_ manner, because (and I may speak to this better than anyone), it is instilled in you to scorn the likes of him. You cannot admit this bond which has endured for all these years, conceived at the very start of your acquaintance, probably the moment you bested him in that fencing match. His respect for you was founded on that day, and has climbed higher ever since. He has shown you as much, again and again, speaking in actions what he cannot in words. He brought back Lydia for _you_, spilled his blood for _you_, dared and challenged you as none other…not even me. And you would cast him out, reject him as all the rest of the world and in his final days? You cannot!"

Darcy's reverie and his steps stopped cold at the sight of the devil himself, standing alone, back resting against the wall, utterly captivated by the full-sized painting displayed upon the opposite side.

_He must go_, thought Darcy with determination as he drew closer. Even if Elizabeth's assessment were correct, he could not abide the threat of more bloodshed on Pemberley grounds. No, he would do as he tacitly swore to John and widen the distance between two ailing, angry, absurd men, thus lessening the strain by half.

"Where is your walking stick?"

His voice carried through the gallery, rousing Thornhaugh from his private thoughts to acknowledge him. Ignoring the question, he motioned toward the artwork and said, "Oh, I do favor this one, Darcy. It speaks to me, somehow."

Coming to stand next to him, Darcy pointed his gaze thusly in mutual appreciation of the piece, that of a sprawling paradise of mountains, a waterfall, a river, and a vast field full of evergreens touching a brilliant sky, rays of sun peeking through the clouds to shine down upon a pair of lovers in the distance. "My wife purchased that one. She said it looks exactly as she feels when taking her walks at Pemberley—that no other place, no matter its beauty, gives her quite the same feeling."

Thornhaugh grinned slightly. "Having toured a good portion of this manor, I have thus far counted _four_ renderings of your missus, including an ivory bust. I have a feeling there are still more than that, perhaps an embroidery? No, something finer…something of platinum or gold."

"There is a fifth representation, an oil she commissioned entirely on her own and for herself, then on its completion bestowed to me. I should easily call that one my favorite, but prefer it to hang…elsewhere. Another room. Not for general exhibition."

Thornhaugh looked at him, eyebrow raised in interest. "Indeed? And may I have a look at this…room?"

Darcy returned his glance but for a moment. "No."

The man coughed out a laugh, turning away to do so. "Darcy, Darcy, Darcy…" he muffled into his handkerchief before folding and tucking it away. He then said in a low, distant voice, "I have never been so happy to be so lost."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Do you not remember those words? You uttered them before an audience of hundreds."

Darcy closed his eyes, mind conjuring the Almack's ball to which he referred. With effort came the hazy memory of round-arched windows, crystal chandeliers, a balcony orchestra, the incredulous stares of so many powdered and feathered spectators, a flourished and courageous Georgiana at the pianoforte, his lovely bride of a mere seven months, his own sweaty palms…and then a waltz, the first ever at Almack's, that he himself dared to initiate in the presence of seven livid Patronesses. He opened his eyes and shook his head. "I recall nothing of what I _said_, and yet so vividly every stirring, horrific sensation: the pounding of my heart, the dryness in my mouth, the knot in my stomach…"

"Did you know that a lifelong abstinence from intoxicants is highly beneficial to the human memory? Mine is a steel trap. There they all stood, surrounding you, throngs of simpletons happily fixed in ignorance and assumption, judging you a disgrace, a traitor among them for the unpardonable, unfashionable sin of self-sovereignty. And in that great empty circle you held your ground, defiantly, powering through those horrific sensations. 'This woman,' you said, 'I am proud to call my wife, my other and truly better half, whose kindness moves me, whose intelligence thrills me, whose spirit enchants me, whose love honors me, and whose shining eyes—"

"Is that what I said?" Darcy whispered roughly. "No, I remember none of it."

He said gladly, "I shall write it down for you then" just as a presence drew their attention to Miss Baxter and the empty wheelchair she was steering towards them.

"Mr. Darcy," said she, mildly startled. "I had thought you retired, sir, else I would have asked your permission for use of the chair—"

"Now, now, Baxter," Thornhaugh groaned as he settled himself into the three-wheeled conveyance. "Did we not agree you are never to call it that? It is not a _chair_—but what?"

She rolled her eyes, smirked and answered, "A chariot, sir."

"Precisely! I shall hold you to that term, as well, Darcy. I can still bloody walk. And do not imagine me too much of an invalid to go out riding, either. In fact, tomorrow I mean to do just that."

Darcy was barely listening, fixed as he was on the chair. "That was my mother's," he said gravely, giving his governess the impression that he was cross.

"Oh, I did not…I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy. If there is an accessible alternative, then—"

"Not at all, Miss Baxter. He is welcome to it. Whatever is needed. I am going to bed now. Goodnight."

Darcy left them in perplexity as he made the brisk walk from the gallery, covering nearly the full breadth of the manor before reaching the family wing. He entered his and Elizabeth's quarters to find her up and alert in bed, clad in a clinging silk nightdress, her pert little nose still red from having wept for most of his absence. She was regarding him anxiously, tears welling, wall of thick curls framing her beautiful face. As if beckoned he advanced, removing his waistcoat in the process, scarcely hearing her grief-stricken avowal, "If you insist that he must go, William, then so he must. I am only sorry that—"

Her words were smothered by Darcy's mouth in a passionate kiss, his arms enveloping her as he joined her on the mattress, lowering her down, covering her with his weight. "Sweetheart?" she breathed when his lips tore from hers to trail smaller kisses along her jaw and slowly down her neck, stopping to nuzzle at the soft curve of her shoulder.

His embrace intensified, communicating his need for her to return it with all her strength. He sighed rapturously when she did so, straining him as close to her as possible, breath hot against his ear as she whispered unsteadily, "Darling, what is wrong?"

At such words he nearly fell apart. Given the absence of context and years of complacency, it made perfect sense for her to assume the worst, and yet it pained him all the same. How long had it been since he said the words? "I love you," he whimpered, then cried out with force, "How I love you, my darling!" He then pulled away to admire those impossibly fine eyes, smiling at her worried, searching expression. He brushed away loose tendrils from her cheek. "You had better say it, Mrs. Darcy, else I shall run mad."

Slowly, the crease in her brow relaxed, their stare holding until her lids finally fell shut. She lifted her head, touching her lips to his. "I do love you," she said before kissing him again, then again. "Forever, my love. Forever."


	30. Chapter 30

Elizabeth awakened the next morning still curled against her nude, sleeping husband, blushing in remembrance of a passion she truly had thought faded into obscurity, lost somewhere between their third child's birth and the night before.

She had not even realized anything was missing until it was so suddenly, gloriously found in his words, his fervent kisses, the sensation of his hands and mouth running over and against every part of that which most wives her age viewed as a child-bearing vessel. Though she never questioned William's love for her, nor had either of them a conscious complaint regarding the duration or frequency of conjugal relations, raw sensuality at this juncture had seemed to her a fanciful notion in theory, and an absurdity in practice. While comfortably trapped in his embrace she contemplated the reasons for this, concluding that the once raging fire was at its faintest in the months following her failure to bring their fourth child to term, a loss of which she still held herself accountable, no matter how much he disagreed. Her mind and heart never quite caught up to her body's recovery as a prolonged endeavor to conceive again commenced; and within that six-month period she had been as furiously committed to the objective as William had been to her happiness, neither of them taking their deeper, truer feelings into account. So little was expressed as they loved routinely, emptily, essentially draining from their intimacy all semblance of romance, tainting what was once so natural between them with their obstinate refusal to accept God's will. Their ultimate, bittersweet resignation to a fruitless future had, she now realized, removed from their marriage a crucial ingredient of which they had been incognizant; and at the present moment she could not help but wonder, from which garden had this all-important herb so suddenly sprouted and flourished?

With effort, she rolled to face her yawning, gorgeous husband for the purpose of satisfying this curiosity, only to receive a more satisfying kiss that effectively replaced one urge with another. It was still early when the two of them engaged in one more blissful dance beneath the covers; and once their breathing returned to normal, he whispered his need to attend a particular matter of business, stole several more kisses, and then arose from their bed to start the day, leaving her in a state of drowsy resplendence.

An hour later, she, too, proceeded with her morning ritual, only with a smile on her face and song in her heart throughout, as if she were a young bride all over again. To retain her good spirits, she resolved to think rather of their reconciliation than the nasty quarrel that preceded it, assuming William was presently taking the exact measures as determined and reasonably argued. She still felt Thornhaugh deserving of more compassion, but—no, it was decided and probably for the best. The situation was too turbulent, too precarious, and too hard on the Russells. The sadness of this outcome, as William had stated, did not negate its necessity.

After a soothing bath came her toilette, during which a surprising report from her lady's maid revealed that nothing had changed in terms of Thornhaugh's residential status and that he was currently out riding, the master said to have granted his Lordship liberal use of a horse named Cronus as a reward for emptying half of last night's dinner tray and an incentive to eat a bit more today. Not ten minutes later, the truth of such was confirmed when Elizabeth met her pensive husband at the breakfast table.

"I arranged for George to accompany him," William further professed, offering up no explanation as to how or why his mind had altered since their argument, nor did she press him to do so. Instead, she noted his untouched plate and doubtful tone of voice, and with apprehension he replied, "Less doubtful of Thornhaugh's capabilities than my own."

He stared forward, brow furrowed, elbows resting on the table, hands meeting to intertwine. Thusly he sat in silence for some moments until Elizabeth bade he unburden himself, forlorn that his mood had sunk so low in such a short span of time. "George continues to pull away from me," he said finally. "Farther and farther, I feel. You might call this a last resort, for I am fresh out of ideas. As to whether this is a wise or mad decision, I am torn, holding my breath, vexingly uncertain. What fool captain places a _gambler_ at the helm of a ship that is veering off course?" (he extended his thumbs) "_This fool_, I suppose. And this may determine at last, Mrs. Darcy, whether I am ready to accept that my power is at times narrow to nonexistent, that his fate ought to be left in the hands of a mightier influence, and that I am called rather to abide the outcome than battle it."

By the end of his speech, Elizabeth was unsure as to whose fate—George's or Thornhaugh's—he was referring. Opting not to make a guess, she rejoined, "While you hold your breath, I shall dare to be optimistic; and had _I_ the power, dear husband, I would have you listen not to your doubts—only to me."

He met her arch expression with his own. "I am listening, dear wife. What have you to say?"

She chose her words carefully, consciously considering both subjects of their discussion when she drew her chair closer to his and replied seriously, "That we both stop fretting so much, that we trust that all shall turn out well in the end, that he does indeed know how much you care, that his residence here _will_ prove beneficial, and that decency shall prevail."

William smiled faintly, and then drew her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss. "I could not get on without you, Mrs. Darcy."

"And never forget it, Mr. Darcy," she quipped. "But do give yourself credit, as well. You are willing to overlook Thornhaugh's shortcomings and make use of his advantages, those being his superior understanding of the world, an intuition that puts ours to shame, and the viewing of our nephew through a prism of neutrality. It is a blessing indeed, that he feels not the love for him that we feel, and all the disquiet, dread and bias contained therein. Blessed of all, he has George's approbation while bearing none of his resentment. Considering all these factors, your notion to pair them together was a prudent one."

"I will claim that credit, my dear. Grudgingly."

"Why grudgingly? Do speak out, darling. There is no one to hear but me."

Darcy lowered his gaze, rather embarrassed as he answered, almost inaudibly, "Because we are still competing, Thornhaugh and I. We cannot help ourselves. Moreover, the title he currently holds is shared with—with _Wickham_, a fact which bears _my_ resentment and always has; that even in death, he is freely given the approbation that _I_ have earned. God, how petty that sounds! but there it is. I want to mean to that boy what Wickham ought not, to the same degree that I want George, in terms of decency, to be what Wickham was not. I really do feel this my last hope; but it is strong, somehow…a concession both bittersweet yet fully realized, that Thornhaugh retains a special talent for relating to an especially troubled youth."

"Only because he was one," she casually replied, an instant later seeing the greater picture of William's last statement, and finding it as incredible as it was ironic, that a man born and bred for a dukedom shared more in common with her lowly nephew than anyone else, even herself.

No sooner had she voiced this epiphany, than the butler appeared to announce the unexpected arrival of a highly distressed and tearful Priscilla Blackwell.

* * *

George stared vacantly at his own reflection while Fleming prepared him, still perturbed at being awakened so early in the morning; for he did not sleep well on most nights and should much rather breakfast in bed than be out at sunrise on what he assumed, with little detail provided, his uncle's authority. The bid for him take a ride had come out nowhere, in fact so unexpectedly that George wondered if he should trust it, his doubt nurturing the prevailing feeling that he was better off trusting only himself.

At just after eight o'clock George was strolling out to the livery, expecting at any moment for his uncle to appear and upbraid him for dragging his feet. _And then I will slow to a tortoise's speed_, he thought with amusement. Raising his eyes from the ground to the stable yard in the distance, George paled at seeing not Uncle Darcy but Lord Thornhaugh waiting, his bony hands gripping Cronus's saddle for support. When the two of them locked eyes, his Lordship raised a foot and with much effort mounted the steed. Once settled, he removed his pocket watch, studied it for several seconds, and then cut his eyes back to George.

A rush of panic prompted George to pick up his steps, pace quickening almost to a sprint as his own Hermes was led out of the stables fully primed. Upon reaching the pony, George slid to a halt and made a clumsy bow, panting "Sorry, my Lord!" before hoisting himself upon the saddle.

Thornhaugh shrugged with apparent indifference. "It is _your_ time, too, Mr. Wickham. Yours to utilize and yours to piss away."

George nodded, relieved that he was not angry. No sooner had he caught his breath and settled his nerves, than a question from Thornhaugh excited them all over again. "Which direction, Mr. Wickham?"

"Sir?"

"Lead the way. Select for us a good route, different from Darcy's. I want to see beauty, brilliance, a panorama of water, wood, land and sun. The more color, the better."

"Yes, sir," George uttered, and with apprehension cued his little horse. At a leisurely gait, the two of them set off, George feeling rather strange in his bidden role when his Lordship was by far the superior rider on the far superior mount. Surely he did not fear becoming lost; and even if he did, would not Mr. Hodges make the better guide? or any one of the grooms? Was he, George Wickham, perceived now as a common stable boy?

But he did have in mind a good spot, a particular mount bordering the Kingston estate; and in that direction he steered them, a bit envious of his Lordship's privilege to ride the noble hot-blood, and continuing to suspect this outing a spiteful play on his uncle's part.

Leaving the stable yard, they made a slow pass by the deer paddock, whereupon George's attention was immediately captured by the queer sight of Aries circling restlessly about the enclosure, pausing every so often to rut and scrape against the fence.

"He is roused today," George thought aloud.

Replied Thornhaugh, "Because he has picked up the scent of other bucks. There must be a herd nearby."

"Really, sir? How close, do you think?" George peered out, finding no telltale signs in the acres upon acres of forestry up ahead.

"Near enough to provoke him, but far enough from the likes of us. They might well have marked for themselves that particular terrain. If so, there they shall remain till autumn, and so shall this state of agitation persist. Unless, of course, your uncle sets him free to join them."

"Uncle swore he would not be released till next year," George blurted without forethought, and then braced himself for a good scolding, only to hear his Lordship calmly and casually return with:

"I should recommend he retract that promise. Otherwise, your cousin's _pet_ will grow more and more aggressive."

"Sir, please do not…" George fell silent. The man had encouraged him from the beginning to be honest, but did he truly mean it? Was this a trick?

"Do not what, Mr. Wickham? Tell your uncle?"

George decided to tread lightly. "Well, sir…Janie really adores Aries and is very attached to him. And Uncle did promise…"

An annoyed sigh curtailed George's meek response.

"I have no desire to involve myself in family matters, Mr. Wickham. You have been informed. Do with that what you will."

"Aye, sir. Thank you, sir."

"And bear in mind the strong possibility that Mr. Darcy will draw the same conclusion on his own and act accordingly."

George muttered under his breath, "And then lie about it."

"Come again?" said Thornhaugh, trotting up and then slowing again to ride alongside him.

"Nothing, sir."

"Oh, but I did hear something, Mr. Wickham: the impugning of your uncle's character. Again, it is none of my affair, but I cannot but wonder…indeed, you must have reason to believe this of him, some evidence gathered by surreptitious means." He smirked. "More sneaking?"

George frowned. He really did not care for that word, nor the word 'clever,' at least not the manner in which it was applied to _him_. "No, sir," he solemnly replied. "I am far better acquainted with the grooms than my uncle, who does not even know all of their names. I was told secrets which I dare not repeat. He is not a kind master, his tyranny said to be common knowledge and very much feared. He has all the appearance of goodness, but…" George's voice grew in intensity, "but _I_ know the wrongs he has done, things that my cousins, uncles and aunts are ignorant of—even Aunt Lizzy! And were I to tell her, she wouldn't believe me. That is what is most unfortunate, sir, for I know she would never tolerate such cruelty."

"Cruelty?" repeated Thornhaugh with disquiet. "My God, how shocking. How awful. And just how soon after hearing this secret was it confirmed with your own eyes?"

He looked over to see his Lordship's face knotted and lips pressed together tightly, as if he were biting back the urge to laugh. This was most disconcerting as George thought surely _he_ would believe him, and thus replied rather woundedly, "Were I as _clever_ and as _sneaky _as some people, I _would_ try to prove it; but I would only be caught, sir, and then given a sound lashing of my own."

"A lashing? _You?_" Thornhaugh quickly withdrew his handkerchief, into which he coughed at length before saying roughly, "I would wager what is left of my lungs that you, Mr. Wickham, have received in your young, impudent life a total of _zero_ lashings to the dozens deserved. What say you?"

George stuttered in reply, "I…well, sir…I may yet, if Uncle is angry enough. He is always cross with me about something, and has already made me endure severe punishments for…things."

"Things! My, now that does not sound like too harsh a crime. Describe these punishments, and pray do not hold back. I am not squeamish."

"Well, sir…lately Uncle barred me from riding and the horses altogether for an entire week. I was not even allowed to feed or brush them. And if that weren't enough, he had me doing slave work for Mr. Hodges."

"You mean standard barn chores, Mr. Wickham? As in sweeping, scrubbing, muck buckets, manure…"

"_Manure_," George stressed.

"Cleaning tack, laying hay, fence repair…"

"I did help mend one fence, sir."

"Oh, dear God. Any splinters?"

George colored with indignation, and in a burst of feeling began baring the secrets of his uncle's misdeeds, describing in full the vicious treatment the low-rung livery staff, in the process repeating Frank's exact words: "Some get it worse than others," and confident his speech would win all due sympathy. But before he had done, Thornhaugh was motioning for him to be silent, his head turned away in disgust.

"That will do, Mr. Wickham. I am no longer amused."

"Sir?"

"Quite the opposite, in fact, and for two reasons. One, because none of this alleged abuse occurred; and two, because I know not if you are lying deliberately or inadvertently. This I find extremely vexing. Now say not a word, please, while I consider the matter further."

A long silence passed between them as they rode on, George sulking on reflection of his Lordship's judgment which he found most unfair.

"Ah, marvelous!" the man cried upon their reaching the mount that afforded just the view he was searching for. Complimenting George's taste, he then gingerly slid from the saddle and, maintaining hold of the bridle, relied on Cronus to hold him steady as he admired the rolling green landscape spread out before them, the stately Kingston Manor but a dot in the distance. He lowered himself to the grass, leaned upon his palms and watched the sunrise as if it were a play being performed just for him, a most delightful comedy drawing much mirth and holding his rapt attention.

George dismounted and seated himself on a large rock about twelve feet from Thornhaugh's spot, his interest rather on their prior discussion than the view he had seen several times before. After another ten minutes of silence his Lordship said, "I do not, as a rule, allow lads above ten the excuse of naïveté; but as one familiar with your past and present circumstances, as well as Darcy's stake in your future, I shall make an exception. Now to my assessment: first, this _secret_ you have divulged, this lie about your uncle, is not one I believe you yourself to have fabricated. No, indeed. It was served to you, poured down your gullet like…" he narrowed his eyes, "…rum, was it?"

"Frank never gave me rum—" George blurted out, then slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Ah, another livery lackey? I see. Must have felt good to have gained his confidence, for only the truly special are gifted such damning yet well-guarded information. You rather prefer the company of subordinates, I take it. And why not? They are humble, agreeable and accommodating—not proud, lofty, demanding…"

"Disapproving," George added, busying himself with the slow torture of a wildflower, "and unfeeling."

"Unfeeling," Thornhaugh restated in a sinister tone, "unlike this Frank person. And Cullen. And however many others bought your favor for a bargain price of liberal praise, flattery, and indulgence. But with supply comes demand, young Wickham. And, from what I hear, the going rate for the collective appeasement of one spoiled rotten nephew's vanity, for the forgiveness of his faults and unqualified approval is just over four hundred pounds, a collection of silver, and the Darcy family jewels. Apart from what the fire consumed, of course."

He glanced over at George, who was staring ahead, trying hard not to betray his expression.

"Ah, but you knew this, I see," the man continued. "You knew about the ransacking of your uncle's study, the demolishing of a century-old desk, the pilfering of your aunt Lizzy's treasures, gifts bought with love from her husband. You knew and could not care less."

"I do care!"

"Did you know the score from the beginning? Were you a willing accomplice?"

"No!" George threw away the weed, fighting hard to keep the tears which had sprung from falling. It took some moments for him to face his Lordship, whose stare was both intense and rather frightening.

"I believe you," he said hoarsely, turning back to his heavenly view. "And you believed in these men. Believe them still! What little effort it took for them to fill the mournful, embittered, entitled young Wickham's head with false rumors of which he remains convinced. Astonishing! How low he must regard himself to think so highly of them, to mix in their circles, view _them_ his true comrades, whose esteem he values over and above that of his strict, stodgy, highborn oppressor. And how masterfully they exploited this fact. I can almost admire it."

George shot back, "You are even higher born than my uncle!"

"Spirited reply," returned his Lordship, genuinely impressed. "So dearly reminiscent of a lively young fool I knew all too briefly, another reckless, headstrong simpleton. And your point being…? Go on, spit it out then."

George gathered enough confidence to do just that. "You spent your whole life mixing in even lower circles and _I_ would wager that's why you're sick! What does that say about you?"

Thornhaugh's smile spread wide. "Bravo, Mr. Wickham! You have sniffed out my hypocrisy, which means you have grown either cleverer or wiser. I have no defense to offer, am in no place to judge you, and sincerely ask your forgiveness."

"You are not…angry, sir? You want _me_ to forgive _you_? Um…alright then."

"Thank you. Excellent. Now that we are on equal footing, pray what other evidence have you to submit?"

"About you, sir? or my uncle?"

"Why I had meant Darcy, but now find myself consumed with self-interest. What more of _me_ have you uncovered? I imagine it is little more than what you knew already, else you would surely—"

"Anne de Bourgh?"

Thornhaugh blinked several times as if stunned before replying, like the crack of a whip, "It is impolite to interrupt."

A sharp jolt of fear told George that he had blundered severely. At once he began to apologize for the affront, whatever it was, only to be cut off with, "No, no. I asked, and you answered. Plainly, innocently, and with a touch of curiosity that is not to be indulged. As the law of marriage decrees, I own all of her, including her memory. That, too, is _mine_, and I do not share it. That is all I wish to say on the subject. Now, would you be so kind as to grant a small wish of my own? You may refuse if you like."

George was struck by his Lordship's sudden change in demeanor, from his usual grace and dominance to this utterly strange, almost frightening frailty. In that moment, he truly did feel Thornhaugh's equal, and though he knew not why, felt certain he could trust this man if no one else, despite knowing he had killed, was in exile and virtually friendless. "I will try to grant it, sir."

Thornhaugh thanked him again, then raised his left hand to exhibit the signet gilding his fourth finger. "See this ring?" He slipped it off and chucked it far out into the tall brush below, with nary a glimpse at where it might have landed.

George gaped in absolute shock as Thornhaugh said, "I wish to know how conscious you now are of your circumstances, and just what it is you truly value in life. Do you really treasure the Darcys less than that which signifies distinction, prestige, supremacy, and significance? If you prefer the gold, Mr. Wickham, then by all means, try and claim it. Should you triumph, do let me know if your prize was worth the time spent and energy exhausted."

"I…" George choked out. "I don't know, sir."

Thornhaugh sighed. "Well, _that_ is an unsatisfying answer. Perhaps you need a bit more time to consider. Do not take too long, however. And while you think on it, have a glance at your wrist. It still bears the mark of your _friend's_ grip."

"He was my friend," George cried, wiping away fallen tears. "Sam never meant to harm me, sir— not _really_. He was only frightened of getting caught, of what my uncle would do to him, of being hanged. Sam loved me like a son." Emotions overwrought, he then shouted vehemently, "And you killed him!"

"And glad of it," his Lordship growled through gritted teeth. "Frightened of Darcy, you say? of his cruelty, his abuse, his _lashings?_ Evidenced by what?"

"Scars, sir! They were all over his back! Sam showed them to me!"

"Did he now? Well…" Thornhaugh rose from the ground, loosening his cravat as he did so. On its removal, he then slid out of his loose-fitting topcoat, letting it fall to his feet. The waist coat came next, followed by the swift removal of his shirt, baring to a confounded George his skeletal torso mapped with scars—_dozens!_ —of various shapes and sizes. He then spread out his arms, made a full rotation to exhibit a similar tapestry covering his back and said, "Have I merely to say that Mr. Darcy is to blame? Shall we take turns vilifying him to our hollow contentment? Will tearing him down lift your spirits, dignity, fortune, station…make you a better horseman? Will it deliver the father owed to you? Will it bring back your mother? —keep running if you wish me dead!"

His Lordship's call stopped George in mid-sprint. He panted and wept. "I want to go home!"

"Have mercy, Wickham," the man pled. "Do not force me to chase after you. Let me save my strength for something more worthwhile than a puerile tantrum. Spare my having to face your aunt and uncle should you take a tumble down one of these hills. They cannot lose you again, and I dare not fight them. Now turn back to me, sir. Be not embarrassed. Believe it or not, I have borne the tears of many a youth. In my London days, I had no less than ten gutter rats on my payroll, glad as dawn to have the least taxing and least torturous work to be found in the east end. Younger than you, Wickham. Hungry. Filthy. Impoverished. Abandoned. Some orphaned, some not so lucky. I need say no more, and you are better off not knowing. You have had but a sampling of what the little Darcys never shall, but it is enough. _That_ is your advantage. Remember it, learn from it, use it…or weep on. It matters not to me. Now give me your shoulder, please. Get me back to the horse."

As they walked over to where Cronus had wandered, Thornhaugh crushing his shirt against him, George could not but stare in awe at the circular crater of healed flesh on his left side, just above the belt line. "Sir, what is that from?"

Thornhaugh glanced down, placing his palm over the area. "A duel." He then slipped the shirt back over his head, letting it billow and flutter in the wind. "I will indulge _that_ curiosity, should you press further, but at a later time. I am tired. Fetch my watch, please."

George ran back to where the articles were lying upon the ground.

"Topcoat, front pocket," his Lordship called out to him. "Leave the rest for all I care. I have no more need of it."


	31. Chapter 31

Priscilla Blackwell was now much calmer after having told her story, drawing a great deal of comfort from Mrs. Darcy's motherly voice and gentle hand on hers. "I must say again how sorry I am to have disturbed your household. Had I not been at my wit's end…"

"You are always welcome," Elizabeth assured her, "especially when you are in difficulty. Drink some more tea, dearest. Have you eaten? No? Have a biscuit then… and you must take a meal."

As Priscilla began to decline the offer, Elizabeth glanced at the lady's mid-section and kindly but firmly reiterated, "Please, you must."

The connotation stirred Priscilla's fragile emotions all the more. Tears again filled her eyes as she placed a protective hand over the fine fabric draped over her womb. "Oh, my little petal," she whimpered. "How thoughtless of me!"

Elizabeth tenderly reassured her that there was no intuiting of danger, but rather empirical appreciation for her delicate state that ought to be treated with the utmost care. While making this point, Elizabeth's ill feelings towards the husband in charge of said care rose to a boiling point; but in lieu of expressing it, her heated gaze drifted over to William, who had been listening and observing from one of the windows, his perceivably forbidding countenance better read by her as analytical. Matching his severe expression, Elizabeth said to him, "She cannot go back to Kingston."

"Oh, but I must," cried Priscilla before Darcy could respond. "Frederick is under so much strain as it is. I am all he has; he said so! He will come undone if—"

"Let him," Elizabeth bit out, wishing she were doing a better job of masking her dislike of the man. "Your child's health hinges upon your own, Priscilla. Safeguarding both is your principal concern, no matter what _his_ may be. We are sorry for Frederick's father, truly; however, Lord Blackwell's condition, while pitiable, is not to take precedence over yours."

Priscilla was silent for several moments, as if gathering the strength to say more. "It is not merely Lord Blackwell's condition which drives this wedge between us," she finally confessed with much difficulty, hazarding a glance at the austere master of Pemberley, whose compassion and understanding in this matter was essential. After taking a breath, she continued: "Some months ago, I made a terrible mistake out of weakness that I deeply regret. A betrayal of our vows, an offense to God Himself. The folly broke Frederick's heart. His fierce reaction is why I fled to Melbourne. When we reconciled, I thought myself forgiven; and for a time we were so happy. A short time." She smiled briefly in reflection. "Remember at the party, how overjoyed he was about the baby? That cheer has since faded, it seems. He so desperately desires an heir; but his heart, I fear, is not mended. Nor his pride. Mistrust still lingers. I cannot explain it, but I feel it in his eyes whenever he looks upon me. Not that he will talk of such matters, even if I dare to raise the subject. He simply refuses."

Ready to erupt, Elizabeth said tightly, "It is difficult to speak to that which is so profoundly personal between you, Priscilla, but…"

On her pause, Darcy had his share in their conversation, saying to Priscilla, "As evidenced by your reconciliation and Frederick's witnessed behavior towards you at the party, I strongly suspect the business with Lord Blackwell a larger component of your husband's pain than any folly of yours, madam. On that head, what mistrust may yet linger can be worked on and this mistake wholly forgiven, if it is not already."

"Indeed!" Elizabeth cried, supremely thankful for William's most comforting expression of sheer logic of which she was currently incapable. Her anger diffused, she then said, "But I maintain, Priscilla, that these troubles shall go unresolved till you both are willing to face them together, and _you_ are willing to battle his resistance."

"I have tried and failed miserably to live by your counsel, Elizabeth, and that of the books I found so informative. In a war of wills, Frederick's always triumphs, because, like my father's, it is made of iron. He has said he wants a _wife_, not an adversary, that he will not deign to battle any woman. He says that _I_ am the one battling the sweet and gentle nature I was born with, that he fell in love with and that he would not change for the world. And I cannot decide what or who is right or wrong, as if I do not know myself at all! And then there is Lord Blackwell, of course, and my own feelings for Frederick. I love him! love them both! and yet I cannot bear to be at home! I have never known such turmoil as this, and my first instinct is all I know to follow, that being to either surrender completely or flee like a coward."

"Coming here was an act of courage on your part, Priscilla. Despite every tender feeling, you accept the impossibility of the circumstances while your husband remains trapped in a hell of his own making. I say that not to disparage him. We commiserate fully, as none of us are strangers to sickness, death or turmoil. But, in this case, your surrender is surely _not_ worth the potential sacrifice."

Elizabeth stressed her point by laying her own hand over that which rested on Priscilla's tummy; and after a while, the tearful woman nodded in accord.

"I cannot go back," she whispered painfully. "Even if I wish to. I dare not."

"I only wish you had come to us sooner, dearest. Why have you not written?"

"The fire has undoubtedly left you with more than enough troubles. I thought it selfish to burden you with mine."

Elizabeth ceded to this fair line of reasoning, if only to herself. "Was there nowhere else you could go for relief?"

"None that would not have stirred _more_ gossip and made things worse. Even Melbourne offers no refuge. Papa is so spiteful and hates Frederick utterly. He would only use the situation to his advantage and take not my feelings into account whatsoever."

"Pity," Elizabeth drawled. "With the latter in common, I should think them well able to build a lasting rapport."

"Lizzy, my dear…" William censured.

On that gentle reproach, Elizabeth grudgingly begged Priscilla's pardon for the remark. To the couple's surprise, the lady smiled brightly through her tears.

"I do so adore watching the two of you! Like a breath of fresh air! How dearly I wish…oh, never mind. As you see, I have no such concerns with regards to our dear neighbors, the Darcys. You are such good people…so kind and comforting." Her lip began to quiver anew.

Elizabeth drew the lady—_who is really but a girl!_ — into her arms. "You will stay with us until—and _only_ until—it is safe for you to return. Even if you end up birthing the child under our roof."

She continued soothing the young woman while Darcy remained pensive, at length inquiring, "Does Frederick know you are here, ma'am?"

"I don't think so. He was coping with his father when I departed and might still be." Priscilla pulled away to employ use of her handkerchief. "I left word that I was going out for a ride. That was more than an hour ago, and I am never gone riding for so long. Oh, he might be worried sick!"

Darcy replied thoughtfully, "I see few options before us. You cannot remain unaccounted for, as _that_ torturous feeling is still fresh in our own minds. At minimum, Frederick must be informed at once of your whereabouts, else he truly _shall_ come undone and very soon apply for my help, just as I applied for his. My plan is to dispatch a message with the request that he leave you in our care, which will be summarily rejected. And when he comes for you—well, that is for my men and I to contend with. Once your quarters are prepared, madam, I suggest you remain within till the house is deemed secure and Frederick free. My feelings align with Mrs. Darcy's, that your comfort and serenity are of paramount importance. As always, should you as our guest desire anything, you need only ring for it."

William's stark tone heightened the lady's concern, which impelled him to more softly assure her that he intended to be unyielding, but not unkind. "He will understand and acquiesce. I foresee an agreeable settling of this matter ere long."

Elizabeth voiced her support of this plan. "Worry not, Priscilla. If anyone can reason with Frederick Blackwell, it is Fitzwilliam Darcy."

The lady nodded her agreement, and then cast her watery gaze at William. "My husband respects you, Mr. Darcy, very much. He listens to you; I am so envious! If you will, please assure Frederick that I love him with all my heart, that I do this not to hurt him, but…"

She trailed off, and Elizabeth subjoined, "But you must have peace, my dear. No mistress—no _woman_ should be made to suffer such unrest in her own home, let alone a woman with child. The situation is heartbreaking to say the least. We are all very fond of Lord Blackwell and will pray for him."

"He is a dear man, so undeserving of such a hateful illness. Oh, but how much worse his spells have become! They are frightening, some of the things he says. He becomes a different man entirely, as if he has been seized by the devil. And when he is not cruel, he is so very confused. I cannot tell you how many nights we have been woke by a report of him roaming about the halls in a frantic search for his lost wife. And then poor Frederick must explain that she has been dead for years, taking sometimes more than an hour getting him back to bed. When he finally succeeds, he returns to our chambers smiling and pretending that everything is well, when clearly it is anything but. But, of course, it is not _my_ place to make that judgment."

"Bloody Frederick," Darcy grumbled under his breath. He crossed the room to ring the bell; and on Mrs. Maguire's swift appearance, ordered a breakfast tray to be delivered to the blue room in the family wing, which was to be prepared for their newest guest at once.

Priscilla listened to the instruction with some bewilderment, prompting Elizabeth to say, "We are happy to share with you this arm of the manor. Besides, our guest wing is occupied at present. I suppose I had better explain—"

"Oh, dear!" Priscilla gasped, wide-eyed with embarrassment. "Dr. Fitzwilliam's patient! Why did I not consider…?"

"You know about that?" said Darcy as he rejoined the two ladies.

"We ought to have assumed as much," Elizabeth huffed. "As if we have not provided Derbyshire with enough diversion! Is a little discretion too much to ask?"

"If it is any consolation," said Priscilla, "the prattle surrounding your household is nothing to what is being said about _ours_. In either case, I have barely listened and refuse to engage. Perhaps it is wiser to distance yourself from the likes of us. Oh, I feel like such a bother!"

The couple sprang in unison to correct her: "Nonsense!" … "Not at all!"

Priscilla expressed again her delight in their utterly charming repartee before saying, "I am honored to stay in the family wing and so grateful to you both, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. And do assure Dr. Fitzwilliam that I am most sensitive to his patient's privacy and wellbeing. I intend to remain inconspicuous, if not entirely out of the gentleman's path."

The couple were quick to reply in similar harmony that this, too, was an excellent plan. And on that agreeable note, arrangements for Priscilla Blackwell's indefinite stay were further discussed among the three of them.

* * *

Meanwhile, George and Thornhaugh were engaged in lighter conversation on their leisurely ride along the bridle path leading back to the livery.

"I have been dunking the toast into the chocolate—but the _bacon_? Now _that_ is just unrefined."

"Oh, but quite delicious, sir," George insisted. "The chocolate alone is too rich—"

"As a river bottom," Thornhaugh concurred.

"But its sweetness paired with the saltiness of the bacon is a perfect balance. I almost always down the whole cupful."

"Getting it down is one thing, keeping it down quite another." His Lordship then looked out into the distance, smiling to himself. "Ah, to feel hunger again, Wickham! How I miss those days of returning to Russell Square famished after a long, victorious evening in St. James'. Oh, there was no finer cook in London, I assure you. Pemberley's is adequate, but ours was brilliant, especially his breakfast. Such variety! —rich, savory, salty, sweet. Tell me your favorite food."

"Strawberries and cream, sir."

"Mine was scones slathered with butter or—"

"Marmalade!" the two of them chimed, with George adding, "Orange marmalade!"

"Shall you clear the table of every scrap when you get home?"

George matched his Lordship's beaming grin. "I just might sir, if my cousins do not."

"Good. Let none of it go to waste. And once you have had your fill, eat one bite more for my sake. I mean to try for three quarters of my plate, and then pray that it is not cast right back up. That about sums up the order of the day."

George looked away, feigning interest in the birds overhead as he asked, "Are you not getting better at all, sir?"

His Lordship was silent for some time before replying: "To be perfectly honest, I have felt better here than anywhere else, and far better under Fitzwilliam's care than any other's."

"Feeling better is not _getting_ better, sir," George quietly returned.

Thornhaugh smiled. "You are an astute young man, George Wickham."

"Astute?"

"Level that brow, sir. I assure you it is a compliment. And be assured that I shall take my leave well before my time expires. Soon."

"Where shall you go, sir?"

"Well now, that depends. What options am I left with? What purpose propels me forward? I can tell you it is _not_ a journey to London to meet an appointment which, of a truth, means far more to the ruddy nobles than to me. In fact it pains me, the thought of mending those frayed connections, and I have decided my memory is worth sacrificing just to envision them torn forever." He murmured to himself, "Sorry, Matlock."

"If you _feel_ better here, sir," George timidly rejoined, "then perhaps you would _get_ better staying here. Near your family."

"What family?"

"Your brother, sir!"

"Ah!" Thornhaugh laughed. "Near my _blood_, you mean. Dear, naïve Wickham. I mean as little to John Russell as he means to me. No resentment, I wish him joy. We have chosen similar paths, one that leads to delight and away from misery, severing that which bound us to unfulfilling obligation and all the benefits therein. It is entirely prudent to recoil from a brother who is disaster personified, who has ever proven more trouble than he is worth. John is of a sound state of mind: To hell with me, Bedfordshire, Woburn Abbey, the peerage, and the preserving of an antiquated ethos. May it completely rot away in time, leaving each individual—rank and lineage be damned—with but _one_ expectation in life: happiness. John found his by more traditional means, while _I_ was formed for personal gratification, of the immediate sort. For laughter, pleasure, passion…and pleasure" (chuckling heartily). "Aye, it bears repeating! How I did love to play; and there was no finer gamester in Town than yours truly. In my prime, I bested the brightest, the shrewdest, the sharpest—every one of them. Then I took ill, and the ol' spark took leave of me, like a demon exorcised—my favorite one of all! Without it, I might as well cease to be. Imagine a lifelong compulsion suddenly losing all charm. London retains some, I shall admit, namely the opportunity to bite my thumb at every blighter in the upper realm; but even _that_ is too little incentive for the effort. Tell not your uncle this, for I do hate to disappoint him. It is unfortunate that survival, while an inherent instinct, is not always enough. A man must have something to live _for_, you see. The search that brought me here in the first place was always intended to be my last worthwhile achievement, a right happy ending in my book."

"The duke, sir?"

Thornhaugh groaned. "Finding _him_ would have nourished the little monster still nibbling away at me. I would have walked through hell to meet that ambition."

"Then why give it up, sir?"

"Because it is too late. Bedford is dead. Dead as mutton."

George looked at him dubiously. "That is confirmed, sir?"

"Not as of yet."

"Then how do you know?"

"Very well, I am sufficiently confident that he is dead," the man impatiently retorted, his hand groping for the handkerchief that was tucked away in George's saddle bag along with the coats he had packed in spite of all avowed indifference. A fresh tissue was found just in time to catch three or four violent coughs before his Lordship said gruffly, "What is that look for, Wickham? Is three-quarters certain not enough?"

"For _you_ it may be, sir, but not for me. I should not quit, were I but _one_ quarter convinced that my father was still living."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed, sir!" George passionately exclaimed. "I would walk, ride or sail to the ends of the earth to find him."

Thornhaugh tightened his grip on the reigns, replying coldly, "And you would have wasted all that time as I have been wasting mine." Coldness gradually rose to anger as he went on: "Pray of what value is a _father_ who did no more than sire you, who gave not a breath of effort to the boy you are, nor the man you will someday become? My, how the standards for sainthood have plummeted, for he had only to roger your mother and get himself killed to earn your everlasting reverence and devotion. But never mind me, Wickham. See it just as you wish. I know not why I continue to speak on matters that are of so little interest or concern to me. And neither is Bedford of any concern to you, so let us quit the subject of fathers altogether. We are nearly back at home—pardon, back at the _house_. Let us talk more of food, or the weather! The birds! That rock! Anything!"

"_My_ father was a hero!" George shot back, near to fury at the disparagement.

"Here is where your astuteness is called into question. Was he indeed, Wickham? For all _you_ know, the man did not a decent thing in his lifetime."

"Even if that were true, I would still seek him out, because he is still my father and therefore part of _me_!"

"Bollocks!" Thornhaugh shouted at the sky.

"All sons are part of their fathers," George dared to argue, eschewing precedent entirely in his anger. "Dead or alive, strange or familiar, good or bad! else why bother seeking _yours_ out?"

"You know damn all of what you speak, boy. I suggest you leave it."

Thornhaugh's menacing tone went unnoticed as George replied, "Respectfully, sir, you owe me another apology."

Thornhaugh's eyebrows shot up. "What the devil for?"

"For insulting my father, sir, and hence insulting _me_, which you are in no place to do."

"You had better make a good case for that; else go hang, little George."

George colored at the added affront, but refused to back down. "You've spoke ill of the duke ever since you came here. When you demanded his whereabouts from Uncle John, there was no expression in your countenance of love or even fondness. Every hint of him in your stories is meanly expressed. At the lake you compared him to a prison governor. In the music room you recounted your fear of him and how you broke free of it. Details of his crimes and other offenses were found easily—no sneaking required. Were you to actually find him, I'll bet you would not treat him kindly. Yet in spite of everything, you resigned for no reason but the belief he is dead."

"Proving what?"

"That no matter how bad he was, he still means a great deal, that he is a man worth pursuing, and that you are therefore no different or better or more _astute_ than I am."

"I never claimed to be better, Wickham, or more astute. But we are different. I have no false idols, or any idols for that matter. I do not project my woes upon the ingenuous and honorable, do not pity myself, and do not suffer grievance. I rectify it, in one manner or another." He stared until George blinked first, then faced forward, admiring the scenery as he stated further, "And though Fate was kind enough to spare me the trouble, she leaves me at a dead end. This will not do. It cannot end here, and shall not. There must be more to conquer. One more path to follow. Just one more, and I will die happily. As to that apology, your case was well argued, is noted, and shall be duly considered. I do regret calling you 'little George.' That was small of me, and I swear to never do it again." He then boomed loudly, "Or may God smite me with consumption!"

No sooner had Thornhaugh made the jest, than George and him both perceived galloping hooves from a great distance behind them, inducing each to look over his shoulder.

"Sir Frederick," George whispered on recognition, and then steered Hermes off the trail to make room for the careering black stallion drawing nearer and nearer.

"My Lord!" George shouted, motioning for Thornhaugh to move out of the way lest he be run down.

"Nonsense, the man is not blind," he said with perfect calm and much curiosity as he continued from his stationary mount to observe the gentleman who was gaining at a resolute pace. "Impressive rider, this Sir Frederick—just a moment!" He cut a sharp glance at George. "Not Frederick _Blackwell_?"

"Aye, sir, of Kingston! Move quickly!"

When Thornhaugh still did not budge, George speedily cued his own mount towards him, guided by sheer instinct to then grab Cronus's bridle and pull horse and rider off the trail, his Lordship's captivated attention on the more zealous rider unwavering.

Once they were safe, George struggled to settle his nerves after such a scare, only to suffer astonishment, as well, when the gentleman did not pass but slowed his shining black steed to address them.

Out of breath, Sir Frederick hurriedly inquired, "Did a woman pass through here on horseback?"

"Not on _this_ trail," replied Thornhaugh casually, not even bothering with a rudimentary "sir" at the end. "On another, possibly. It is a rather large property."

Sir Frederick steered his horse to face them directly. "I am well aware of this property's magnitude,"he said harshly, nostrils wheezing loudly with every laborious breath, "but there is only one direct path from Kingston."

"And several indirect paths," Thornhaugh returned, "which a woman who may wish to avoid being pursued should find wiser to take."

Sir Frederick narrowed his eyes, clearly taking much offense to this impertinent, presumably inferior stranger. Slowly, he drew closer, scanning Thornhaugh's appearance as he did so. With more intrigue than outrage he said, "You are an odd sight, indeed. I hardly know what to make of it."

Thornhaugh shrugged. "Perhaps it is not worth a review. Seems you have more pressing matters to attend."

Sir Frederick was so shocked he almost laughed. "My God, the tongue on you! Have you perchance misplaced your manners along with your overclothes?"

"Funny, I recall no inclination on _your_ end to a proper or civil greeting."

"Surely you do not fault my initial impression of your station, which is yet unclear." He took a beat to scrutinize George. "Glad to see _you _have smartened up, Mr. Wickham. I should recommend as your next step to reassess the company you keep, lest you get into more trouble."

"What a coincidence," his Lordship drawled, "I had just made that same recommendation to your wife."

Sir Frederick inched his mount even closer, muzzle to muzzle, the gentleman's eyes dark and flaring with rage. He met Thornhaugh's smirk with a scowl and said roughly, "Were this boy not present, sir, I would drop you to the ground."

"So she _is_ your wife? Damn, I am good!"

George watched the clenching of Sir Frederick's fist which compelled him to blurt out a lightning speed, "Sir Frederick, this man is Dr. Fitzwilliam's patient, he is very ill, we apologize for offending you and have not seen or spoken to any ladies, sir, but you might try the house!"

"So this is the patient, eh? Forgive me, Mr. Wickham. I was not aware your uncle was pursuing madness as a new field of study. Thank you for the suggestion; I will take it. Good day to you both."

And with a final, foreboding glare at Thornhaugh, Sir Frederick kicked his stallion to an immediate gallop towards the stables. George looked at his Lordship, who was smiling almost wickedly. "Sir?"

He peeked at his pocket watch. "We had better hurry, Wickham. Breakfast is almost over, and I am suddenly starving."


	32. Chapter 32

Darcy stepped into the reception hall, where Frederick Blackwell was waiting in a frozen state of preoccupation, his furrowed brow and deep frown a dead giveaway as to the sort of conversation that was soon to transpire. Darcy hence decided on an amiable but wary approach as he greeted him with, "Welcome, Frederick. I was just about to write you. I take it Hodges supplied the most essential detail."

"Indeed," replied Frederick, visibly working to hold his temper in check. "When Priscilla failed to return from her ride, I began to worry that she might have taken a fall, or become ill."

"Your second notion is not off the mark. But I am happy to report that since her arrival, the lady's health appears to have improved substantially."

"Good. I am thankful that the matter is far less serious than I had imagined. You have my gratitude, neighbor, and pray forgive the imposition; it will be of short duration. I mean only to collect my wife and be on my way."

"No hurry, ol' friend. My schedule for today has been cleared. Come and have some refreshment."

"I wish I could say the same for my own schedule, but duty calls me back to Kingston without delay."

Darcy returned lightly, "Can you not unshackle yourself for just an hour or two? Surely you left this duty in good enough hands to afford that much freedom."

"Nevertheless, I prefer not to be away for too long. If you could just send Priscilla down to me…"

Darcy sighed heavily, steeling himself for the imminent escalation. "We are in no place to have this conversation. Let us talk somewhere private."

"Where is she, Darcy?" he asked with little patience.

"Upstairs, eating. Resting_._ Come now."

"Darcy!"

"_Blackwell!"_ Darcy cried, the sharp echo forcing his caller to take notice of the sound transmission within their unguarded surroundings. "Into the parlor, please," he more softly demanded.

Darcy turned and strode briskly in that direction, hearing the hard thump of Frederick's bootsteps close behind. Not a word between them was uttered till the twin doors were slid shut and latched, whereupon Darcy began with, "You seem awfully agitated, Frederick. I sincerely hope you would not think of dragging a woman with child from this house against her will."

"Against her will," the man repeated in disbelief. He walked about the room, struggling to preserve what little remained of his equanimity. "What in God's name is happening? Can you not fathom the horrific scenarios that have been running through my head for the past hour?"

"Yes I can. Now add three more days, and then keep that in perspective."

"I really do not have time for this," Frederick muttered, his reserve slipping even further. "Had your nephew ended up at _my_ door, you can be sure I would have turned him over to you directly, whether he willed it or not."

"Priscilla is not a child, Frederick."

"She is under my protection."

"And perfectly safe as I have clarified. Do you doubt it?"

The man did not answer, in fact appeared not even to have heard, replying almost instantly, "Will you take me to her, please?"

"Will you tell me why—"

"BECAUSE SHE IS MY WIFE!"

Darcy stepped back with the force of the thunderous outburst, rather disturbed than intimidated. He stared, pondered briefly, and said, "I would not entrust you with my least favorite hound in your present state. But if it is a fight you want, Frederick, I shall gladly escort you to big Angus. He is standing watch at Priscilla's door."

Frederick winced. "She asked to be guarded from me?"

"That was my idea. Obtaining relief was hers. Have a seat."

The man gave Darcy one more hard look before slackening his features along with his fists. Exhaustedly, he shuffled over to a chair and plopped down. He leaned back and exhaled deeply, staring up at the ceiling. "This is all very new to me, Darcy. I am in no measure accustomed to such treatment as this, as if I am nobody at all, a man whose provision of _everything_ suddenly counts for nothing, a designed Lord and master denied little by little his due respect as he is more and more obliged to bear insolence and emasculation. These last few months have felt as if the world is closing in around me, as if an ancient, once mighty empire is gradually, inexplicably crumbling piece by piece: name, family, reputation, all the influence and distinction that carried the Blackwell dynasty for generations. Am _I_ to blame? Is God punishing me? What egregious sin did I commit? Must I suffer hell for it?"

"Are you quite finished?" Darcy remarked, seating himself in the opposite chair.

"More mockery," said Frederick with a bitter humor, sinking deeper into his own chair. With his gaze still upward, he spread out his arms and said to the heavens, "Even at my lowest, Darcy takes no pity on me."

"You look ghastly. Clearly you have not slept."

"I catch an hour or two here and there."

"Shall I order coffee?"

"One more cup, and my heart just might burst from my chest cavity." Frederick sat up to meet Darcy's eye. "Priscilla talked to you about Papa then?"

Darcy confirmed as much before leveling a severe gaze at him. "Now do you recall what _I_ told _you, _Frederick? that your father's condition was sure to grow worse, and that he demands the sort of care that you alone have not the power, education nor proficiency to provide. You cannot continue on this way."

Frederick waved a hand in dismissal. "It is really not so bad as she would have you believe, Darcy. You know how prone women are to hyperbole, especially a woman with child. Papa adores Priscilla! He would never, _ever_ do her harm, nor would I allow it. He may swear or rave at odd moments, but she knows he means not the things he says; and when the fit has run its course, I see that he apologizes at once."

Darcy massaged his temple, scarcely able to come to terms with such delusion. "Good God, Frederick…"

"Moreover," the man persisted, "he is much better with me than any doctor or nurse. I left him at his balcony, under Mitchell's care, contented and docile as a kitten. But Papa naturally prefers my company to his valet's and becomes cross when I am inaccessible. I shall own that the situation is not ideal; but Darcy, I gave him my word that I would never send him away. The man wishes to die at Kingston, not in some—"

"Enough!" Darcy furiously interjected. "Spare me your talk of promises while you freely neglect those which you made before God to _her_. Forsaking all others, as you may recall. Or perhaps you have no reminiscence of that trifling ceremonial vow to comfort, keep and honor the woman to whom you are bound by _marriage_, she who is half of you, shares your name, carries your child—"

"Does she?"

Darcy stopped his lecture cold, unsure of how to respond to that fierce bite of a question. He saw but a mere glimpse of Frederick's ravaged expression before the man stood and availed himself of the window, his back serving as a safeguard as he said roughly, "Is it mine, Darcy? I have thought very hard on that question of late, in fact of almost nothing else, having reached no definite conclusion…and it is driving me mad. You remind me of _my_ vows? Pray what of _her_ vows? What of _her_ promise to forsake all others to love, honor and keep only unto _me_ so long as _I_ live?"

Darcy nodded slightly, privately giving Priscilla Blackwell credit for correctly intuiting her husband's prolonged resentment. "Well," said he, "this is a far less joyful tune than the one you sang at the party, Frederick."

"Have you not heard the rumors, Darcy? Are you unaware that my announcement yielded the opposite of its desired effect, in fact stoking the fire that I had hoped to extinguish? Most of the cheers and well wishes that day were subterfuge, for I have since been branded a cuckhold, my wife a whore, and our child a bastard!"

"No, we have not heard. Our time spent contending with more literal fires, as well as a robbery, a kidnapping, and the consequences thereof has fallen us shamefully behind on the latest tittle-tattle. But we are bearing the deprivation as best we can."

"I applaud that your family can afford to disregard public perception, Darcy, but the Blackwells rely upon it. Sneer if you will, but I come from a long line of elected and appointed officials— judges, chancellors, ministers! —trained from birth to capture and preserve Society's good opinion, that of voters, backers and even peasants. I am not built to endure such humiliation and cannot bear the thought of failing my father and forebears, but nor can I bear the thought of…" He shook his head. "You see the predicament that I am in, can you not?"

Frederick continued staring out the window as Darcy stood and proceeded to walk slowly about the room, meanwhile addressing his neighbor in a frank and businesslike manner: "I see that your mind is in its proper place, leaving us with little more to discuss. Never mind your heart, for it is weak and womanish to be led by emotions. Let us speak rationally as men do. Logically I must deduce, by virtue of this lingering mistrust, that you hereby consider your marital and parental obligations nullified, that _they_ are to be forsaken as you continue to devote every waking moment, every fraction of energy to a man whose health, strength and time will continue to wane till his unfortunate but inevitable demise. This unyielding grip on the past is a confession of your intent to forego the future, your bitter avowal an acknowledgment that your marriage no longer worth salvaging. At this juncture, you have determined your wife an ill-suited partner, that her character is irredeemable, her sin unforgivable. _These_ are the logical, reasonable, rational convictions that drove you here in such haste, are they not?"

Darcy's volume rose higher with each statement voiced with much emphasis, forcing Frederick to awaken from his destructive state of delusion. The answer was but a faint, inaudible murmur, impelling a response of, "Pardon?"

"No they are not!" the man repeated in a louder, firmer tone.

"Such inconsistency, Blackwell. It would seem your reason is at war with your heart. Well, we cannot allow the heart to win, now can we?"

"Your point is taken, Darcy."

"No, no! You must not give in to weakness, man! Whatever pain you still feel must be purged, here and now; but as Priscilla is in no condition to bear the impact, _I_ willingly volunteer to act as surrogate. Take all the time you need. Scream as loud as you wish. I assure you that the lady will hear from me the _essence_ of all that is said. And as her proclaimed sentiments are nothing compared to her treacherous actions, I shan't bother passing along her message to you."

"What message?"

Darcy gave a shrug. "Some nonsense about how she loves you with all her heart and has no desire to cause you pain. Was that it? Yes, that was just about her exact phrasing. Not that it matters, of course. Oh, and be assured that we will continue to provide for the lady's comfort while you settle this matter lawfully. You have plenty of grounds for divorce after all; and once she is out of your life and back at Melbourne, you may begin the crucial process of tempering the gossip and rebuilding your family's reputation, perhaps begin a new courtship, take a new wife, one who finally meets the Blackwell standards of perfection."

At length Frederick turned from the window, his eyes somber and voice thick when he asked, "May I please see her, Darcy?"

Though Darcy felt a little more accommodating towards him than before, his answer did not take long in coming. "I think it best you do not for a while."

"You think it best?" Frederick turned a shade of red, repeating sharply, "_You_ think it best?"

"Do you dare try and smother my voice in this matter, Blackwell, given the cost of my involvement thus far to this household, which has since been thrown into utter turmoil? No, you have not _that_ power, either, just as you have not the power to facilitate another short-term reconciliation that would undoubtedly result in a recurrence of this very situation. Though I have borne far more losses than gains from this foolhardy investment in your marriage, I do intend to see it through to the end. To hell with your wishes and your 'due respects,' quite frankly, for they are nothing to _her_ wellbeing and that of the child, no matter how unaccustomed _you_ are to 'such treatment as this.' We shall all bear this out together, for as long as it takes, and you will do what is right by her and what is necessary—not simply confiscate her for the relief of _your_ suffering!"

By the end of Darcy's speech, Frederick was again walking the floor in a show of protest. "And I suppose that Mrs. Darcy is to retain her voice in this, as well? Pray is she keeping my wife company as we speak, poisoning her against me while you tie my hands and cover my mouth—now Darcy, steady on…"

Frederick backed away as Darcy advanced on him menacingly. "_My_ wife," he grinded out, "is showing _yours_ the care and tenderness of which you are evidently and abhorrently incapable. While you so admirably attend your father's every need, _hers_ are continuously overlooked for no better excuse than jealousy and resentment; and now you have the unmitigated gall to—_again!_ —disparage my wife's character to my face, in my home…"

Darcy was just about to land a facer to the man when Frederick whipped out a sealed letter from an inside breast pocket. "This!" he cried, thrusting out the paper bearing the Blackwell crest. "Please give her this if I am forbidden to."

Darcy glanced at the letter without accepting it. With eyebrow raised he asked, "Can you assure me that it contains none of the venomous nonsense you have been spouting in this room?"

"I can assure you it contains nonsense never before uttered beyond the confines of my own head. It was written during one of several drunken frenzies while Priscilla was in Melbourne, and I have since kept it on my person, always torn on whether to give it to her or cast it into the fireplace. I have made attempts to write a cleaner, more refined, less ridiculous version, but my sober self stays my hand. Love letters are for smitten schoolboys and French libertines, not first-class-honored Cambridge alumni. Indeed, I ought to have burned the blasted thing by now."

Darcy snatched up the letter before Frederick could do just that. "Shall I deliver a verbal message along with it?"

"Yes, tell her that I cannot do without her—no, don't tell her that! Just tell her that I came round, and that I intend to…make things for her at Kingston more bearable—I mean comfortable! Happier! If I could just have a week…no, five days. I shall have everything managed within five days. Will you tell her, Darcy?"

"Five days." Darcy nodded. "And what of the gossip, pray? Will it not continue to gnaw at you?"

"It would appear that I have no choice but to live with the disgrace for now, though I'll be damned to surrender to it. Papa would demand that I keep fighting, and I intend to. He was always near me, during my campaigns, the writing of my speeches, the delivering of my addresses. Chairmanship, Parliament, knighthood—none would have come to pass without him. Not till he grew ill did I realize just how dependent on him I truly was. On the list of misfortunes I am well able to cope with, loss is unfortunately not among them. Aye, including the loss of power, as you so vexingly remind me. Well, so be it. I need my wife, Darcy. It is an abominable frailty to admit to, but there it is. I can shoulder burden and look to a hazy future with hope, but I am loath to face it without her by my side. I almost fully—nay, I _absolutely_ _must_ believe that the child is mine. And Cilla needs me just as ardently, for there can be nothing worse for her than returning to Melbourne a ruined woman. That bloody father of hers…no, it will not do."

"There may very well be potential for a happy future at Kingston," replied Darcy, "but there is still so much work to be done. Stay determined, and let not those little demons torment you any longer. First and foremost, get plenty of rest, then start afresh with a clear head. Take more than five days if you need to—"

"I made the challenge difficult on purpose. Now I must rise to meet it. Five days." Staring at the letter with much embarrassment, Frederick held out his hand, and with fluttering fingers pled, "May I have that back, please?"

Darcy slid the letter into his own pocket. "Come and take it, Blackwell. No? Then I shall walk you out."

* * *

"How do I look, Baxter?" asked Thornhaugh as he gave the knot on his cravat one more firm tug.

"Very presentable, sir," she replied upon meeting his reflection in the massive looking glass in the reception hall, resting a newly procured walking stick upon the front of her skirt. "I have known very few gentlemen to tie their own neck cloth, let alone with a skill that I believe Mr. Brummell himself would praise heartily."

"Just presentable?" he replied as if he had not heard the compliment. "Not handsome or…no, indeed not. Not with this cadaverous face and underfed figure, borrowed garments entirely out of fashion, not my taste at all—and just look at my complexion! Pale as ash!"

She continued to observe him, rather baffled by this strange preoccupation with his appearance. "Are you expecting a caller, sir?"

"Of a sort. Ah, I see you have found me a new club. A very nice one, too."

"Why yes, sir." She held up the artfully crafted cane adorned with a mother-of-pearl top. "I am told it belonged to the former Mr. Darcy, fashioned for elegance _and_ function. It should bear your weight easily."

"A pity that its elegance will call more attention to a merely adequate wardrobe. Nay, Thorny! Think positive. This may very well be your last chance."

"Last chance, sir?"

"Never mind." Taking the cane, Thornhaugh made his way over to the staircase, coming to a stop at the banister. "Something else on your mind, Baxter?" He asked while continuing to fuss over the finer details of his attire.

"Well, sir, I would be remiss in my duties not to mention that…" she paused to decide the best means of approaching the delicate subject.

He read his watch, and then burst out impatiently, "Out with it, woman."

"Sir, I must tell you that you were caught stealing out of the distillery, earlier."

His features quickly formed a rather irritating expression of mock naiveté. "Caught? Stealing?"

"Is that a poor choice of words, sir? I beg your pardon. You were very lately witnessed exiting the still room in a covert manner."

She applied her severest tone, searching his countenance for the smallest measure of guilt, but instead he asked simply and flatly, "By whom?"

"Never mind, sir."

He frowned. "Well, what of it? I was not aware that I was barred from any room. And I would have you consider the subjective interpretation of the manner in which I withdrew from said room after what could have been—for all this person knows—all of ten seconds?"

She glared and folded her arms, suppressing the urge to demand he go stand in the corner for being cheeky. "Sir, you can have no business of any kind for any length of time in that room, which just happens to be directly adjacent to the oak parlor, where the master has been for some time engaged in a private meeting."

His mouth slanted at one corner. "How private could it have been with all that shouting going on?"

"You—" She forced herself to refrain from administering a sharp reprimand. "Sir, I am obliged to report this to the master."

Thornhaugh stopped all movement to fix her with a glittering, piercing gaze. "Are you now?"

"Indeed."

"And why bother telling me beforehand, Baxter?" His voice was low and silky smooth. "Why was that your first inclination?"

He was smiling at her now in a singularly affectionate manner that brought a warmth to her cheeks. She stammered in her reply, embarrassed to have no immediate answer, in truth unsure of it. After she managed a few words, he raised a hand to silence her.

"I will tell you why," he said in a tone as bewitching as his expression. "Because you know, deep down, that _I_ am your first obligation. You wanted me to know that I was seen, and I do thank you for that information. You also wish to know my motives, which I regrettably cannot divulge, despite how much I value the friendship we have formed. I know you would never betray that, no matter who pays your salary. You have far too much integrity." He reached out, taking her hand and squeezing gently. "Though I sometimes move in mysterious ways, you trust me as I trust you. Now, may I trouble you for a fresh handkerchief?"

She glanced down at her hand in his, releasing a sigh when she felt his thumb move tenderly over her knuckles. When her eyes met his once more, she saw an intimacy within their depths. No man had ever looked upon her nor touched her in such a manner, and she wished to capture the moment forever. Slowly, almost hypnotically, she reached into the pocket hole of her skirt and removed the requested article, which he took with the warmest expression of gratitude before requesting a breakfast tray. "A plentiful one," he said. "And then I should like a bath. My business here will not take long."

"Yes, sir," said she, and then departed with a curtsey, her pulse racing all the way to the kitchen.

* * *

"I shall have her things sent over directly," said Frederick as he and Darcy walked the hall side by side, "including her abigail. Though Cilla is hardly fastidious in that regard, I know that she should much prefer Miss Rollins over one who is unfamiliar."

"Rollins? Would this be the same maid who spied on her at your behest?"

"Well, yes, but that is not my intention here. I am thinking only of her comfort."

"That is admirable. Nevertheless, I cannot consent to it. Not that I am suspicious, but nor would it do to supply us with a reason to be."

"No, I suppose not. Er…listen, Darcy. Priscilla never knew about that. You will not tell her, will you?"

"It is hardly my place to do so, but I hope that _you_ will eventually, and then have this servant replaced for Priscilla's peace of mind and as part of a renewal of your commitment. And I hope you make the confession with remorse and contrition, not with an imperious affirmation of your rights as a husband."

"You would have me conduct myself in a most enfeebled manner, Darcy."

"'Tis a pity you see it that way. Apparently you still have yet to realize that the woman you love is worth relinquishing some of your pride. Would you rather have her look upon you with tenderness, Blackwell, or with submission? And before you answer, consider that your efforts to have both have failed miserably."

Frederick swore before proclaiming, "My first marriage was so much simpler, even though Sophie and I felt almost nothing for each other—Antoinette! May I send her over, Darcy?"

"Who is Antoinette?"

"Cilla's spaniel dog. My wedding gift to her. She is very well behaved, and I know it would give Priscilla much joy to have her—"

"Certainly! That is an excellent notion."

"At last we fully agree on something," Frederick laughed. "By God, this _is_ a day for new beginnings."

Darcy allowed himself to join in Frederick's one bout of mirth as the two men reached the reception hall, whereupon they both paled at the sight of Thornhaugh positioned at the foot of the staircase, his lean figure fixed in a refined, portrait-like pose with one arm rested regally upon the spiraled newel. Apparently the time outdoors had done him good, for he actually appeared more stout than weary for a change. Apart from the strange manner in which he stood, it was just as odd to see his wardrobe in such perfect order, his frilled cravat framing a noble and highly agreeable aspect.

Darcy's perplexity at this picture he clearly took pains to present lasted no longer than a glance at Frederick, whose balled fists and cold stare alerted him that an acquaintance had somehow already been formed between the two men.

"I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for the interruption," said Thornhaugh in his humblest tone yet, "but I could not allow your caller to depart, Mr. Darcy, without explicitly acknowledging the abominable first impression I have made in the hopes of correcting it. For my intolerably rude behavior, this gentleman is owed and shall receive my most ceremonial and sincerest apology; and I should be eternally grateful to begin our introduction anew."


	33. Chapter 33

In the first moments of Thornhaugh's eloquently worded, ostensibly rehearsed apology, Darcy felt the acceleration of his heartbeat and tingling of his skin, as if he were being doused with a bucket of ice water. It was a feeling with which he was by now well familiar, a byproduct of an association and current living arrangement with a tempest in human form, the very embodiment of wind, rain, thunder and lightning, a force of nature near impossible to forecast and its intensity most difficult to measure. And when suddenly caught in a storm, one must think and act quickly, his ultimate fate—that of suffering either extensive damage or a mere soaking—determined wholly by his wits.

The first rule, of course, was to remain calm; and therefore, within the short span of time afforded, Darcy dwelt not on his ignorance of the situation but rather observed the offended party, or more precisely the slow lifting of Frederick's brow, his countenance by the end of the speech emitting a stronger whiff of skepticism than appeasement. This response seemed to Darcy an appropriate one, enough for him to freely step back and allow the scene to unfold till more intelligence was attained.

Before he would speak, Blackwell made a silent, concerted study of the penitent party; for the admission of fault and seeking of forgiveness was a rarity in their circles, and with such formality and flair as to be unheard of. _Thornhaugh cannot possibly be ignorant of this fact_, Darcy considered, _but neither is he the sort of man to engage in pretense as a means to ingratiate himself._ Duplicity was for amateurs, and Thornhaugh—who fancied himself an expert in all fields of particular interest, but likewise a man of principle—would sharply correct anyone foolish enough to label him a swindler. On that head, it was further ascertained that this affront must have been remarkably egregious, and that the apology might in fact be genuine, though most assuredly not performed altruistically. This was merely a means to an end, the mystery being the end itself; and if Darcy knew less of Frederick Blackwell's character, he might have been compelled within that silence to intervene for his neighbor's own protection.

But he knew Frederick exceedingly well, and very soon would Thornhaugh, as a spider sorely discovers that the prey he is attempting to ensnare is no mere fruit fly.

Darcy moved barely a muscle as the intended prey hovered a little closer to the spider and said, "You consistently surprise me, sir, and by that virtue alone have succeeded in stirring my intrigue. Nonetheless, your initial conduct leaves me disinclined at present to accept your apology, as I have no reason to believe that it is occasioned by any particular sense of decency."

The contrition in Thornhaugh's countenance thusly snapped into one of complete confidence and determination. Gingerly he stepped away from the banister, his new walking stick (_my father's_, Darcy fleetingly noted) applied differently than usual, as less the essential tool of an invalid than with the grace and style for which it was intended. "Your disbelief is justified, sir," said he. "If it is decency you require, then I cannot accommodate you. But I always settle my debts. You were owed my admission of guilt and subsequent remorse, which _I_ believe is now remitted in full. However…"

Frederick glanced at Darcy with incredulity, pondering aloud, "Who the devil does this man think he is?" as Thornhaugh went on undeterred:

"If you disagree, please name a cost that we may further negotiate and from thence proceed to the establishment of fellowship."

Frederick's brows were now drawn together tightly. "Truly astonishing," he whispered, taking one small step closer. "Suppose you tell me what need you have of _that_, sir."

"Ah!" Thornhaugh smiled with boyish delight. "Still intrigued, I see. Enough to elevate this conversation to the introduction stage?"

"Possibly. But first I have need to assess my findings at our current stage. May I?"

Thornhaugh bowed. "By all means, sir."

About five feet now separated the two men of near identical height, though Frederick's build (owed to impeccable health, breeding, and a strict athletic regimen) was Herculean by comparison. But Thornhaugh, as if he were unconscious of this fact, gave scarcely a hint of acknowledgment or the merest trace of trepidation that was undoubtedly expected and historically received. Rather, he appeared most content to be at such an advantageous position to inspect Blackwell to the same degree that he himself was being studied. And Darcy saw that Thornhaugh's own assessment was concluded well before that of the man who voiced his findings thusly:

"I would readily deduce you a man of _some_ significance, assuredly of education, and apparently of the World but for your carefree, I daresay careless manner that bears further scrutiny, that most people among _our_ acquaintance should find not merely questionable but intolerable. You could not possibly get on in Society, and therefore I am doubtful you have mixed in our circles…or if you have, you did not mix _well._ And then there is the matter of your rather unfortunate appearance, which sorely diminishes whatever degree of power you actually possess or had hoped to exude. I am in the business of appearances, and as such can elevate no man so inattentive to his own—as you were at our first meeting and are now at this moment. A gentleman of no fashion suffers a great deficiency, either of pride, taste, or fortune. Which is yours?"

"The third assumption," replied Thornhaugh directly. "But a gentleman of no fortune seeks to make one; and I should be obliged, sir, if you would be so kind as to hear and consider my proposal."

Frederick gave a chuckle. "I cannot imagine _you_ proposing anything that would entice me. I bargain with the established, the credentialed, the healthful; and, of a truth, I see not a sound, rational individual before me, but a loose screw! I see far less of a man than an unruly urchin, a self-indulgent misfit who feels at liberty to shirk decorum and then attain fellowship within the same morning to the same purpose—self-interest—behaving now with an eagerness which smacks more of desperation than mettle. Your tenacity, while not without its charm, hardly compensates for your failure to present even the illusion of strength, of which you clearly have none."

Thornhaugh shook his head in disagreement. "I must correct that presumption, sir. My young companion spoke out of turn."

"Do you deny that you are Fitzwilliam's patient?"

"No, but I do refute the boy's overstated understanding of _my_ condition which is for myself and not for a child to measure."

"You delude yourself, sir. Anyone possessing a working pair of eyes and ears can discern your impairment. I hear your breath, that low rattling sound, as if you have run a full mile with each footstep. I see your pale, weathered face like that of a seasick mariner, the sheen of sweat on your brow, the white of your knuckles denoting the force of your grip on that cane. Weak as a lily, you are! Why I could take you down—" (he snapped his fingers) "—like _that_!"

There was a time when Darcy knew that so bold a claim would have provoked a swift and violent response from the man who now, to his amazement, appeared rather injured than angered by Blackwell's harsh assessment. Darcy was thus tempted to intercede in that instant, and in his lodger's defense! _Do not dare,_ his mind firmly commanded as Frederick dealt one last blow: "I could not guess your age, but you appear much older than myself if I may be direct."

"As direct as you like, sir," Thornhaugh returned, his chin raised despite the visible wound to his vanity. "Clearly my rushed effort has fallen short. Were there more time, I would have assuredly made a better presentation. As stated, I take full responsibility for my prior insolence. My appearance is admittedly substandard. And now there is nothing but to rely on your benevolence, of which I am undeserving. But with these hollow words and this poor exterior I am still compelled to prove to you, good sir, that I feel_—_that I_ am_ younger, healthier, and worthier than I appear."

Darcy swallowed back the urge to reinforce this declaration, feeling a sudden, inexplicable pain in his chest at Thornhaugh's suppliant expression which Blackwell found immensely gratifying. It was through vigorous effort that Darcy was able to retain impartiality, or at least the appearance of it.

"My intrigue sustains," Frederick generously proclaimed. "You are lucky, sir, to have caught me in a better mood than before. Let us see where this introduction leads; but keep your expectations low. Fellowship, I must warn you, is unlikely. As I was taught that the first impression is most essential, you find yourself at the foot of a very tall mountain to climb."

"Well noted, sir," said Thornhaugh, "and I am willing to make further amends for that well-earned impression. For reasons I shall not bore you with, I took no care to recognize or appreciate your state of emergency, and with insupportable cheek treated a man of due distinction with undue discourtesy."

"And what know you, sir, of _my_ distinction?"

"You are Sir Frederick Blackwell, heir to Kingston Hall. Mr. Wickham schooled me on that detail, but the rest is common knowledge; or it certainly ought to be. Your dynasty is more than respectable, centuries in the making, comprised of a right honorable lineage on both ends. While the maternal side has borne more nobles, I personally find the Blackwell side most impressive in terms of personal achievement. Your father Lord Mason Blackwell is one of a swarm of great men in your family who have played substantial leadership roles in the realm of politics and his Majesty's Courts. And about as rich as your blood are your own triumphs: top-honored Cantabrigian credentials with a strong emphasis in government and international relations, well-practiced in assembly, a three-year seat in the House of Commons, and then knighted at an age that I believe is still recorded as the youngest in our great history for a political figure. And to all this I must add your celebrated excellence in the fields of sport and recreation; moreover, my own esteem for a highly renowned competitor who has bested many an opponent at many an institution, from Cambridge to the gentleman's clubs to Angelo's, where you were a top pupil and subsequent winner of several fencing tournaments."

Frederick was speechless for some moments before stammering out, "Sir, how…how do you…?"

"Because I am _not_ nobody, sir," Thornhaugh devoutly affirmed. "I, too, was a champion at a time just barely succeeding your own."

"Is that so?" In Frederick's voice was heard a vestige of doubt. "In what years, pray? And by what name or title would you be registered?"

Thornhaugh hesitated before answering, "None, sir, as my name has since been removed and my victories annulled."

"How very convenient," Frederick smirked. "And most unlikely, sir, given the magnitude of the offence that would bring about that consequence."

"Indeed."

"Only one competitor to my knowledge has incurred such a penalty."

"Indeed. But you had asked what I knew of _your_ distinction, sir. My fondest memories are of London; and there resides my best triumphs, as well, despite their invalidation. As a skilled sportsman in my own right, and as one most exceedingly familiar with our justiciary process, the name Blackwell is, I can assure you, as familiar to me as my own."

Frederick stared and contemplated, his features fixed in disturbance, mistrust, and almost unwilling enthrallment. At length he said, "And _your_ name, sir, is a secret much bandied about in Derbyshire, with our mutual acquaintance here…" (he cut a glance at Darcy) "…having been especially unforthcoming. Am _I_ to have the honor and privilege of a reveal?"

A smile accompanied Thornhaugh's reply. "I should call that a fair recompense, Sir Frederick, in exchange for the forgiving and forgetting of first impressions."

"Agreed, sir."

"On your word?"

"On my father's life."

"Excellent."

And when that name was pronounced (for there was no preventing it), Blackwell's instantaneous response was a loud, reflexive cry of "Oh, the devil you are, man!" in utter disbelief, followed by a groan of immense disappointment. "And you had me in such suspense! almost fully persuaded that you really were somebody!" His frustrated eyes found Darcy's— "For God's sake, Darce, who is this person? Where in damnation did he come from? I must know! Out with it already!"

One more glance at _this person_ gave Darcy every indication of what was expected of him, his notion of Thornhaugh's intentions providing little relief relative to his misgivings. God, how he despised uncertainty! Was he now in the eye of the storm, or had it only just begun? Where was this to lead? He did not know, could not predict or assess the risk, and therefore worried about the immediate future, having but moments to consider this purposeful encounter, all of Frederick's insults, how little Thornhaugh had left in the world, and how his dignity now hung in the balance. Might that loss be too painful to survive?

No farther did Darcy's thoughts travel, though on deeper reflection he knew they ought to have. But before he would submit, Darcy first asked Thornhaugh, rather by expression than words, _Are you sure about this? _

His response was the straightening of his posture and one blink of his dark, determined eyes that were impaling Blackwell's like a knife.

Darcy sighed. For whatever reason, this moment was critical.

"Sir Frederick," he began in all formality, "it is my honor to introduce you to Bedford's true heir, the Marquess of Th—"

But the words were abruptly cut short with a whip of Frederick's hand and an eruptive _"Stop!"_ that filled the hall and brooked no further utterance. Blackwell met Thornhaugh's aspect with equal if not greater intensity as he followed his furious interjection with, "What do you take me for? I will not be toyed with! You cannot be _him_! It is impossible! And if you are to persist with such conviction in this falsehood, then you are as barking mad as I had fixed you on that trail, in which case I am sorry for you and wish Dr. Fitzwilliam the best of luck in curing you…"

Frederick's energetic tirade prevailed over Darcy's fervent efforts to correct his wrong but not unreasonable conceptions, Thornhaugh meanwhile regarding them both with the intensity of a critic reviewing a piece of art on exhibit. He eventually quieted them, bidding Darcy grant Sir Frederick the liberty to say his piece, to which the latter rejoined with a strong air of pity:

"There is no use in placing blame on the unhinged, and therefore I take no further issue with you, sir. But _you_, Darcy!" his eyes flashed accordingly, "I am astonished that you would stand by and allow this—this…whoever this bloody person is to waste my time which you know is of the essence! And that you would actually indulge this poor wretch's delusions is…is…surely this form of treatment shall prove far more crippling than conducive. To partake in such a ruse is far beneath you, Darcy, so utterly against your character, but it is no doubt in service to your cousin out of kind-hearted but foolish faith in his wildly unorthodox methods. Did I not warn you that Matthew's work presents more of a threat to medicine than the expectation of advancement? Here!" (his thrusting forefinger came within an inch of Thornhaugh's chest) "we have a living example of just that!"

"Sir Frederick!" a woman's voice rang out.

The abrupt, indignant command jerked the head of each man towards its source. Down the long path of stairs came Elizabeth, her fiery expression defying a resolutely composed figure. With hand gripping the banister and glaring eyes set on the reviled object of her anger, she furthermore declared, "I am afraid I must insist that you treat those under _this_ roof with the fundamental respect to which our cousin, our guests, and all other perceived inferiors are entitled."

Her cutting words affected Darcy almost as if he were the recipient; for there was a time when his arrogance to that of his neighbor was akin if not identical, and with equal ferocity had he, too, been made to bear the brunt of a harsh, intolerable, unacceptable truth. A bad memory that a thousand better ones could never erase; hence the heft of Blackwell's reaction was felt with no need to check his face as Darcy read in his wife's her urge for further confrontation. With the intent of thwarting it, he made a quick advance, pleading gently, "Darling, I am managing this," upon meeting her at the end of her descent.

She made as if to capitulate to him, her color fading but eyes still fierce. Darcy then looked at Frederick, who seemed determined to ignore not only her disdain but her presence altogether. Doggedly he refused to meet her scornful gaze and then replied, with their mutual resentment palpable and with an air of superiority thicker than his head, "The mistress is, of course, at liberty to run her household in as irregular a manner as she sees fit. It is of no general consequence to me, and I remain for the most part indifferent. My wife and her safety are my principal concern, which—with respect—has risen substantially upon further reflection of this unstable individual's residence." With a split-second glance at Elizabeth, he added, "Among other potentially toxic elements."

And with that direct shot Elizabeth's temper flared as an oil-soaked torch. Only by Darcy's quick reflex to hold her back was she prevented from charging trojan-like upon the man. Twelve years of marriage had sharpened that reflex, as well as Darcy's anticipation for such a reaction that a very few, including himself, could incite. He acted with the full awareness that she was not to be silenced, his role swiftly becoming that of a buffer, more for Blackwell's protection than hers, while her vigorous, angry voice shook the columns upholding their entrance hall. "You are a flimsy fool of a man!" was among the many slights she seemed unable to repress, along with such descriptors as pompous, primitive, blind, and boorish.

Frederick, meanwhile, granted not so much as a squint in response to her impassioned rebuke comprised also of the same points Darcy had made during their meeting in the parlor, dealt however with the added richness of high emotion and numerous slurs owing rather to years of antipathy than this occasion alone. A passing glimpse at Thornhaugh's utter amusement at the scene heightened Darcy's frustration to the point of his whispering in Lizzy's ear to please bear in mind a certain presence that was making a decisive study of their every word and movement. The warning finally hushed her; but it was too late, of course.

With arms folded, Frederick said not a word but simply stood his ground with a look of righteous indignation and genuine reluctance to depart. But no sooner had Darcy convinced himself that all progress was lost, than Thornhaugh spiritedly declared that he, as an insane but impartial observer, might be of some assistance in this matter "—if Sir Frederick is willing to specify what can be done at this moment to ease his trepidation."

Frederick answered with contempt, "Were I decided on that, sir, I see not how _you_ could be of assistance in that regard."

Thornhaugh smiled and said, "Well, a blind man would not, now would he?" At the returned glare, he was quick to subjoin, "Mrs. Darcy's word, not mine!"

Frederick chuckled bitterly at this, finally acknowledging Elizabeth as he uttered, "My apologies, madam, for insinuating this patient _suffers_ from insanity, for it is clear that he enjoys it immensely," before reverting his attention on Thornhaugh. "Pray divert me with your recommendation."

His reply was earnest despite the taunt. "It is simply an offer to take my leave of here directly. Today. Now. Forever. And while my notion may not satisfy you completely, Sir Frederick, then perchance it would suffice to end this stalemate, secure a truce, and allow a peaceful, more amicable parting between old friends and dear neighbors."

The couple grappled with the surprise and concern this suggestion aroused in them, Elizabeth first to respond with, "The doctor has made it plain, my Lord, that you are in no condition to travel."

"With all due respect, Mrs. Darcy, the doctor is not my keeper, and neither are you." The firm rejoinder was accompanied by a pointed glance at Darcy, who had opened his mouth to make his own objection.

"'_My Lord,_'" Blackwell parroted, regarding them all with perplexity. "So, the entire household is abiding this charade then? including the servants, the children, everyone?"

Said Thornhaugh, "I can scarce imagine, Sir Frederick, that your belief in my existence would serve to lessen your concerns, nor do I blame you. I am as disposed as you are to mistrust, even in those who have proven themselves trustworthy. A sound principle is that which kills the prospect of disillusionment. Moreover, you have more or less stated your unwillingness to compete with me, which leaves me quite literally with no purpose here, and therefore no reason to further exhaust the hospitality and kindness of my gracious hosts, nor the care administered by the good doctor…" Again Darcy began to protest, only to be interrupted with, "…who has no more power to perform miracles than a seller of snake oil, varieties of which I have vastly consumed in large and numerous doses."

"_Compete_," said Frederick, "with _you_, sir? Is that what this is about? Are you issuing to me a challenge?"

"A series of challenges, really. The notion is still in the inception phase—but yes! Precisely!"

Frederick was spellbound. "Fascinating! You know, I have heard of actors who become so immersed in their part that they in fact go mad, essentially forgetting their true identity. You do look vaguely familiar, I daresay. Might I have seen you on the London stage?"

"Er…if it means your acceptance, I am willing to go along with whatever belief suits you. Hell, I will perform Hamlet here and now! 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…'"

"I shall get to the bloody bottom of this," Frederick adamantly declared. "Where is Dr. Fitzwilliam?"

"At the Bingleys' by now, I should think," answered Elizabeth.

"And were my cousin accessible," Darcy added, "he would affirm that his expertise and concentration is still constrained to _physical_ maladies. He treats not the deranged, Frederick."

"Well then!" cried Thornhaugh, most eager to resume. "As I was saying, Blackwell, though we are practically strangers to one another, I believe you are as familiar with _my_ record and reputation as I am with yours. Born contenders, we are! Aye, I dare presume to speak for you, because I am not wrong, because we are similar, and because my life was spent among our kind. I give no significance to our respective ages, circumstances, and chapters in life, for none of that precludes our seeing a contest in almost every facet, and you play in all fields as I do—to _win_. That is your nature…_our_ nature. And not for three years have I embraced it. How mortifying! Three squandered years on physicians, empirics, alchemists, apothecaries, sage healers and magic men with their useless tools, methods, medicines—_three_ sodding, wasted years on the futile endeavor to procure more time and delay death when I ought to have been living! when I ought to…Sir Frederick? Are you unwell, sir?"

Indeed, Frederick looked exceedingly so, drained of all color, seeming to catch the man's words with much more alarm than interest.

Thornhaugh nodded his understanding, coupled with disappointment. "I see. You still think me mad. And therefore a danger, I suppose. Very well. I shall go then, just as I offered."

"Frederick," said Darcy, stepping up to his dumbstruck neighbor, "you might as well let go of that ten-year narrative. Granted, this is an enormous revision to assimilate to. With enough rest, the shock of it will wear off. After that, if doubt remains, your mind will at least be open to the possibility."

Darcy paused till he was convinced that Frederick was really listening, thereupon intuiting by his change of expression the multitude of questions on his mind. Darcy replied to them in advance: "You have agreed to call again in five days. Within that time, I invite you to appeal to Matlock for credible confirmation that there is no charade being conducted here. Of past and present events, Richard is acquainted with every particular," (he nodded towards Lizzy) "almost as intimately as we are. I will give him leave to explain everything, and he will do so gladly, fixated as he is on his own purposes to this very subject. I would involve the doctor in this, as well, but Matthew's time—like everyone's—is lately split between occupation and family to the point of collapse. And to that point, Frederick, we really ought to say our farewells as you have been kept here long enough. Much business awaits you at home, including that of your own health." He then cut his narrowed eyes at Thornhaugh. "As for this _challenge,_ which came quite out of nowhere and has yet to be sanctioned…"

"Pray consider it, Sir Frederick," Thornhaugh implored, "as a dying man's wish." The look of rising disapproval in Darcy's aspect induced him to snap, "Oh, stop it, you! Another week, and I shall be out of your hair forever!" and then he returned to Blackwell with, "By all means, let affairs of higher import take precedence, and reserve contemplation of _my_ entreaty for any spare moments that can be afforded to it. Or not. Your choice. And in the interim, I shall draw up the terms of the contest. Just in case." And on that final word, he withdrew from their company, a noted spring in his step as he walked a good distance away.

"Pay him no mind, Frederick," said Darcy, determined to deal with _him_ by and by. "And as to your wife, I beg you trust that she will be well looked after. I swear this to you on _my_ life."

As Frederick ruminated in silence, the disturbance of his mind most evident, Elizabeth joined Darcy's side to utter tentatively, "Pray forgive my temper, sir. It got the best of me, and I am remorseful."

Frederick looked at her, and with apparent belief in her sincerity replied, "I did not make it easy for you to hold such feelings in check, madam; and for that I apologize. The care and friendship you have shown my wife is…not unappreciated. No, forgive me, it is _highly_ appreciated, and I thank you."

Elizabeth bit back a smile, knowing how difficult it was for Frederick Blackwell to ever admit fault. "Though we may never get on as neighbors should, sir, I am more than willing to bear your disdain with civility if you are willing to return the favor."

Frederick winced as always at her unique, disconcerting directness, this time responding in kind, "I dislike you not half so much as you dislike me, Mrs. Darcy."

She replied archly, "That may be true, Sir Frederick, as I have not taken the time as you have to measure it. But no matter the strength of our discord, we need not let it come between our affection for Priscilla, whom I have never sought to impress or influence, and whom I serve to no other purpose but our friendship."

"Which she values, madam. Exceedingly."

"And you would…rather she did not?"

The question was asked hesitantly, as if she expected a harsh response; but then Lizzy was surprised to see Frederick color with embarrassment. He leaned towards her slightly, lowering his voice to almost a whisper: "I should rather know your secret to making her smile, ma'am."

Darcy beamed at the expression of rejoice in his wife's countenance as she returned, "There is no secret to securing the happiness of a woman whose heart you have already. I left her smiling just minutes ago, Sir Frederick, and owing to that very thing you said she values so exceedingly: friendship. We spent the last hour talking, listening, sharing, joking, laughing…and now she is content as a lamb, tranquil, protected, well nourished, and sleeping soundly in her room…" she could not resist adding, "which is an entire wing apart from the asylum."


End file.
